Ah! the views of the others
had then appeared to be correct; he had repeated to himself that he would
never have a factory, nor a mansion, nor even a mill, and that in all
probability he would never earn twelve thousand francs a year. The others
had everything and he nothing. The others, the rich, behaved sensibly,
and did not burden themselves with offspring; whereas, he, the poor man,
already had more children than he could provide for. What madness it had
seemed to be!
But forty years had rolled away, and behold his madness was wisdom! He
had conquered by his divine improvidence; the poor man had vanquished the
wealthy. He had placed his trust in the future, and now the whole harvest
was garnered. The Beauchene factory was his through his son Denis; the
Seguins' mansion was his through his son Ambroise; the Lepailleurs' mill
was his through his son Gregoire. Tragical, even excessive punishment,
had blown those sorry Moranges away in a tempest of blood and insanity.
And other social wastage had swept by and rolled into the gutter;
Seraphine, the useless creature, had succumbed to her passions; the
Moineauds had been dispersed, annihilated by their poisonous environment.
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