The hope of approaching success had made them forget all prudence.

Since the beginning of 1851 they had gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellow drawing-room every evening with syrup and punch, and cakes--providing, in fact, complete collations, at which they one and all drank to the death of the Republic.

Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of his capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, as a contribution towards the purchase of guns and cartridges.
"The pastry-cook's bill amounts to at least a thousand francs," Felicite resumed, in her sweetest tone, "and we probably owe twice as much to the liqueur-dealer.

Then there's the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer----" Pierre was in agony.

And Felicite struck him a final blow by adding: "I say nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for the guns." "I, I!" he faltered, "but I was deceived, I was robbed! It was that idiot Sicardot who let me in for that by swearing that the Napoleonists would be triumphant.