“Do you know what I'm thinking of, Elisabeth?” said he at last “Well! these Lhommes may earn as much money as they like, I'd rather be in my shoes than theirs. They get on well, it's true. The wife said, didn't she? that she had made nearly twenty thousand francs this year, and that has enabled her to take my poor house. Never mind! I've no longer the house, but I don't go playing music in one direction, whilst you are gadding about in the other. No, look you, they can't be happy.” He was still labouring under the grief of his sacrifice, nourishing a certain rancour against those people who had bought up his darling dream. When he came near the bed, he gesticulated, leaning over his wife; then, returning to the window, he stood silent for a minute, listening to the noise of the works. And he resumed his old accusations, his despairing complaints about the new times; nobody had ever seen such things, a shop-assistant earning more than a tradesman, cashiers buying up the employers' property. Everything was going to the dogs; family ties no longer existed, people lived at hôtels instead of eating their meals at home in a respectable manner. He ended by prophesying that young Albert would later on swallow up the Rambouillet property with a lot of actresses. Madame Baudu listened to him, her head flat on the pillow, so pale that her face was the colour of the sheets. “They've paid you,” at length said she, softly. At this Baudu became dumb. He walked about for an instant with his eyes on the ground. Then he resumed: “They've paid me, 'tis true; and, after all, their money is as good as another's. It would be funny if we revived the business with this money. Ah! if I were not so old and worn out!” A long silence ensued. The draper was full of vague projects. Suddenly his wife spoke again, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, without moving her head: “Have you noticed your daughter lately?” “No,” replied he. “Well! she makes me rather anxious. She's getting pale, she seems to be pining away.” He stood before the bed, full of surprise. “Really! whatever for? If she's ill she should say so. To-morrow we must send for the doctor.” Madame Baudu still remained motionless. After a short time, she declared with her meditative air: “This marriage with Colomban, I think it would be better to get it over.” He looked at her, then began walking about again. Certain things came back to his mind. Was it possible that his daughter was falling ill over the shopman? Did she love him so much that she could not wait? Here was another misfortune! It worried him all the more from the fact that he himself had fixed ideas about this marriage. He could never consent to it in the present state of affairs. However, his anxiety softened him.