“Well,” said Mlle. Gilberte coldly, “what else could we expect? If Bertan came alone last night, it is because he alone had been notified. Here are the others now.”
And, turning to her brother,
“You must see them,” she added, “speak to them.”
But Maxence did not stir. The idea of facing the insults and the curses of these enraged creditors was too repugnant to him.
“Would you rather let them break in the door?” said Mlle. Gilberte. “That won’t take long.”
He hesitated no more. Gathering all his courage, he stepped into the dining-room. The disorder was beyond limits. The table had been pushed towards one of the corners, the chairs were upset. They were there some thirty men and women,—concierges, shop-keepers, and retired bourgeois of the neighborhood, their cheeks flushed, their eyes staring, gesticulating as if they had a fit, shaking their clinched fists at the ceiling.
“Gentlemen,” commenced Maxence.
But his voice was drowned by the most frightful shouts. He had hardly got in, when he was so closely surrounded, that he had been unable to close the parlor-door after him, and had been driven and backed against the embrasure of a window.
“My father, gentlemen,” he resumed.
Again he was interrupted. There were three or four before him, who were endeavoring before all to establish their own claims clearly.