"Something she ate choked her," she said, forgetting that the sick girl had swallowed no solid food for two weeks.
At these words, a blind rage took possession of me. I felt like slapping that yellow, sneering face, and, as the wretched creature opened her lips again:
"Be quiet, will you!" I cried out to her, in a ringing and indignant voice.
The old woman drew back her arm-chair in terror. She stared at me, full of fear and indecision; then, seeing that I was in earnest, she made a gesture such as a drunken man might make and stammered, in a drawling tone:
"Then, if joking is prohibited, why don't you say so in plain words? As for me, I always have a joke upon my lips, and so much the worse for those who weep say I! You don't want Marie; very well, let us say no more about it."
And she pushed the arm-chair before the table; then, she poured out a glass of wine, which she sipped slowly.
I bent over Marie, whom suffering had put to sleep. There was a low rattle in her throat. I kissed her on the forehead like a brother.
As I was about going away, Pâquerette turned towards me.
"Monsieur Claude," she cried, "you are not amiable, but, nevertheless, I will give you a piece of good advice. If you love Laurence, keep a sharp eye upon her!"