Marianne cried when she was alone, for it was the future which, more than all, terrified her. There was no more money coming in, and her little savings, so painfully amassed, were, day by day, dwindling. She had been obliged to sell a railway share, a tiny piece of paper of which she had been so proud. Linen, clothes, all took the same road; the handsome gilt clock had to be sold, the commode--even the children's playthings and books, one day, when they were hungry. It must be told, too, that she herself earned nothing. Not only had work been brought to a standstill since the outset of that detestable strike: people who had, before that, employed her, now shut their doors in her face. "We don't give work to the wife of a striker," they said. She had swallowed her tears and had felt a movement of anger. Was it her fault that it had happened? More than all, was it the fault of her poor little ones, who, if the present state of things continued, would become destitute? No; but it was a contest--war between classes. What a frightful misfortune that men could not come to an understanding and help, rather than hate and fight, each other! IV.--SEDITIOUS PLACARDS. One evening Jacques slunk like a thief up the stairs of his house and entered his room furtively. He was pale, his face contorted, his eyes haggard; and it was with a panting voice he called Marianne. "I am pursued," he said; "I have come to let you know and to share what money you have--for I must escape." She threw herself upon his neck. "What is it you have done?" "Oh! a mere nothing: posted up some bills on the walls; they say these placards are seditious." "And you are being pursued?" "Yes, they are trying to arrest me. I'm not afraid of a prison, but I don't fancy being made to pay for others." "Yet that is all you will do, Jacques; for you are weak-minded, and allow yourself to be led away." "They say it is revolutionary." "Yes, and they will make an insurgent of you. They will push you on to fight behind a barricade; they will get themselves made Deputies or Ministers, and leave you to be put in irons and sent to die five thousand leagues away, if you are not shot against a wall. It is wrong of you, Jacques, to have allowed yourself to be led into this position; women see further than you--because they are mothers." All the while she was weeping and talking she was hurriedly making up a bundle of clothes. Then kissing Jacques--holding him in a long embrace--she placed two five-franc pieces in his hand, perhaps the only two left in the house. "Don't go yet," she said; "I want you to see the children." But sounds were heard on the stairs--the whisperings of men stealthily ascending. "The police!" cried Houdaille. "Oh, the brutes!--Adieu! I have no time to lose. Don't be afraid--they won't take me!" [Illustration: "STRIKING OUT WITH HIS FISTS,"]