“Well! sir, as this is how you look at it, this marriage shall take place. It was my daughter’s last chance. I will cut my hand off sooner than she will lose it. So much the worse for the others! One becomes capable of anything at last.”
“So, madame, you would commit murder to get your daughter married?”
She rose to her full height.
“Yes!” said she furiously.
Then she smiled. The uncle had to quell the storm. What was the use of wrangling? It was far better to agree together. And, still trembling from the quarrel, bewildered and worn out, Monsieur Josserand ended by promising to talk the matter over with Duveyrier, on whom everything depended, according to Madame Josserand. Only to get hold of the counselor when he was in good humor, the uncle offered to put his brother-in-law in the way of meeting him at a house where he could refuse nothing.
“It is merely to be an interview,” declared Monsieur Josserand, still struggling. “I swear that I will not enter into any engagements.”
“Of course, of course,” said Bachelard. “Eléonore does not wish you to do anything dishonorable.”
Berthe just then returned. She had seen some boxes of preserved fruits, and, after some lively caresses, she tried to get one given her. But the uncle’s speech again became thick; impossible, they were counted, and had to leave that very evening for Saint-Petersburg. He slowly got them in the direction of the street, whilst his sister lingered before the activity of the vast warehouses, full to the rafters with every imaginable commodity, suffering from the sight of that fortune made by a man without any principles, and bitterly comparing it with her husband’s incapable honesty.
“Well! to-morrow night, then, toward nine o’clock, at the Café de Mulhouse,” said Bachelard outside, as he shook Monsieur Josserand’s hand.
It so happened that, on the morrow, Octave and Trublot, who had dined together before going to see Clarisse, Duveyrier’s mistress, entered the Café de Mulhouse, so as not to call too early, although she lived in the Rue de la Cerisaie, which was some distance off. It was scarcely eight o’clock. As they entered, the sound of a violent quarrel attracted them to a rather out-of-the-way room at the end. And there they beheld Bachelard already drunk, enormous in size, and his cheeks flaring red, having an altercation with a little gentleman, pale and quarrelsome.