Felicite professed to feel a presentiment that she would die rich.

However, each day of poverty weighed them down the more.

When they recapitulated their vain attempts--when they recalled their thirty years' struggle, and the defection of their children--when they saw their airy castles end in this yellow drawing-room, whose shabbiness they could only conceal by drawing the curtains, they were overcome with bitter rage.

Then, as a consolation, they would think of plans for making a colossal fortune, seeking all sorts of devices.

Felicite would fancy herself the winner of the grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in some lottery, while Pierre pictured himself carrying out some wonderful speculation.