“Oh! the fifty thousand francs!” murmured Berthe, in an embarrassed way. “You know he only agreed, as we did, to pay ten thousand francs every six months. The time is not up yet; the best thing is to wait.”
“Wait! wait till he comes back and brings them to you, I suppose! You great blockhead, do you want to be robbed? No, no! you must demand them at once out of the estate. As for us, we are still alive, thank goodness! It is not known whether we shall pay or not; but with him it is another thing; as he is dead, he must pay.”
And she made her daughter swear not to yield, for she had never given any one the right to take her for a fool.
“Go up too!” she ended by exclaiming, in a cry from her heart: “Auguste is too weak; they are sure to be taking him in again!” Then Berthe went off up-stairs. Octave, who was arranging the display in the window, had listened to what they said. When he found himself alone with Madame Josserand, and saw her moving in the direction of the door, he asked her, in the hope of a holiday, whether it would not be proper to close the warehouse.
“Whatever for?” inquired she. “Wait till he is dead. It is not worth while losing a day’s sale.”
Then, as he folded a remnant of poppy-colored silk, she added, to soften the harshness of her words:
“Only, you may as well, I think, not put any red in the window.”
Up on the first floor, Berthe found Auguste with his father. The room had in no way changed since the day before; it was still dampish and silent, save for the same long and painful death-rattle. The old man on the bed continued perfectly rigid, in a complete annihilation of all feeling and movement.
“Ah! my dear, what a frightful visitation!” said Clotilde, going up to and embracing Berthe.
“Why not have informed us of it?” asked the latter, with her mother’s affected pout. “We were there to help you to bear it.” Auguste, with a glance, begged her to keep silent. The moment for quarreling had not arrived. They could wait. Doctor Juillerat, who had already been once, was to call again; but he still gave no hope; the patient would not live through the day. Auguste was informing his wife of this, when Théophile and Valérie entered in their turn. Clotilde at once advanced to meet them, and repeated, as she embraced Valérie: