And he cracked the whip over the bed. But the child beggingly replied:
“Pray, papa, don’t—don’t strike me. I swear to you you will regret it. Don’t strike!”
“Will you jump up?” he roared still louder, “or else I’ll tickle your ribs! Jump up, you little hound!”
Then she softly said, “I can’t—do you understand? I’m going to die.”
Gervaise had sprung upon Bijard and torn the whip away from him. He stood bewildered in front of the bed. What was the dirty brat talking about? Do girls die so young without even having been ill? Some excuse to get sugar out of him no doubt. Ah! he’d make inquiries, and if she lied, let her look out!
“You will see, it’s the truth,” she continued. “As long as I could I avoided worrying you; but be kind now, and bid me good-bye, papa.”
Bijard wriggled his nose as if he fancied she was deceiving him. And yet it was true she had a singular look, the serious mien of a grown up person. The breath of death which passed through the room in some measure sobered him. He gazed around like a man awakened from a long sleep, saw the room so tidy, the two children clean, playing and laughing. And then he sank on to a chair stammering, “Our little mother, our little mother.”
Those were the only words he could find to say, and yet they were very tender ones to Lalie, who had never been much spoiled. She consoled her father. What especially worried her was to go off like this without having completely brought up the little ones. He would take care of them, would he not? With her dying breath she told him how they ought to be cared for and kept clean. But stultified, with the fumes of drink seizing hold of him again, he wagged his head, watching her with an uncertain stare as she was dying. All kind of things were touched in him, but he could find no more to say and he was too utterly burnt with liquor to shed a tear.
“Listen,” resumed Lalie, after a pause. “We owe four francs and seven sous to the baker; you must pay that. Madame Gaudron borrowed an iron of ours, which you must get from her. I wasn’t able to make any soup this evening, but there’s some bread left and you can warm up the potatoes.”
Till her last rattle, the poor kitten still remained the little mother. Surely she could never be replaced! She was dying because she had had, at her age, a true mother’s reason, because her breast was too small and weak for so much maternity. And if her ferocious beast of a father lost his treasure, it was his own fault. After kicking the mother to death, hadn’t he murdered the daughter as well? The two good angels would lie in the pauper’s grave and all that could be in store for him was to kick the bucket like a dog in the gutter.