That sacrifice was not so much as noticed by Philippe.
On the morrow, Agathe looked ten years older.

Her terrors calmed, reflection came back to her, and the poor woman had not closed an eye throughout that horrible night.

She was now reduced to six hundred francs a year.

Madame Descoings, like all fat women fond of good eating, was growing heavy; her step on the staircase sounded like the chopping of logs; she might die at any moment; with her life, four thousand francs would disappear.

What folly to rely on that resource! What should she do?
What would become of them?
With her mind made up to become a sick-nurse rather than be supported by her children, Agathe did not think of herself.