And, raising his mother’s hand to his lips: “Forgive, mother,” he continued, his eyes overflowing with tears; “forgive him who swears to you to redeem his past, and to become your support, instead of being a crushing burden—”
He was interrupted by the noise of steps on the stairs, and the shrill sound of a whistle.
“My husband!” exclaimed Mme. Favoral,—“your father, my children!”
“Well,” said Mlle. Gilberte coldly.
“Don’t you hear that he is whistling? and do you forget that it is a proof that he is furious? What new trial threatens us again?”
XIII
Mme. Favoral spoke from experience. She had learned, to her cost, that the whistle of her husband, more surely than the shriek of the stormy petrel, announces the storm.—And she had that evening more reasons than usual to fear. Breaking from all his habits, M. Favoral had not come home to dinner, and had sent one of the clerks of the Mutual Credit Society to say that they should not wait for him.
Soon his latch-key grated in the lock; the door swung open; he came in; and, seeing his son:
“Well, I am glad to find you here,” he exclaimed with a giggle, which with him was the utmost expression of anger.
Mme. Favoral shuddered. Still under the impression of the scene which had just taken place, his heart heavy, and his eyes full of tears, Maxence did not answer.