"Twelve thousand francs!" repeated his wife in amazement. "Oh, you must be mistaken!"
"There are the figures at any rate, see for yourself."
"Yes, I see. I suppose it must be so, as it is in the paper; but—but—if we could only have a little part of it!"
"Ah, if!" said Jean with a shrug. "But how will you manage? Stand about the corners of the Streets and ask every escarpe that passes?"
"I could almost do that," his wife answered stoutly, "when I reflect that with money we might have an advocate, and you might be free. My store grows so slowly, Jean!"
Jean dashed the paper to the ground, and thrust his hands through his hair.
"Don't talk of it, if you wouldn't madden me!" he exclaimed. "Might—might—I am sick of mights! Cooped up here I can do nothing, but if I had only common luck I might get the end of a clue as well as any other poor devil. I tell you, Marie, I have half a mind to give myself up, and end everything."
She clung to him, pale as death.
"No, no!"
"You'd get on better without me."