But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast.
“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns no one.”
Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of heart, he smiled.
“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.”
Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen early, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air. But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy.
“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?”
The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental conflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the pangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in his heroic self-abnegation.
“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something here for you. There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.”
And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in rendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the sale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one hundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, the penuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell La Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself from his difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs which remained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find them again in the drawer.
“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—”