“It’s Auguste who asked me to come up,” Théophile, who had not spoken until then, thought it necessary to declare. “Will you let me kiss you, Clotilde? We are all in trouble.”
She presented her cold cheek, and said:
“My poor fellow, only those are in trouble who choose to be. As for me, I forgive every one. And take care of yourself, you seem to me to have a very had cough.”
Then, calling to Auguste, she added:
“If the matter does not get settled, let me know, for I shall then be very anxious.”
The storm of notes recommenced, enveloping and drowning her; and, whilst her nimble fingers practiced the scales in every key, she gravely resumed her reading of the “Revue des deux Mondes,” in the midst of it all.
Down-stairs, Auguste for a moment discussed the question whether he should go to Bachelard’s or not. How could he say to him: “Your niece has deceived me?” At length, he decided to obtain Duveyrier’s address from the uncle, and to tell him nothing. Everything was settled: Valérie would look after the warehouse, whilst Théophile would watch the home, until his brother’s return. The latter had sent for a cab, and he was just going off, when Saturnin, who had disappeared a moment before, came up from the basement with a big kitchen knife, which he flourished about, as he cried:
“I’ll bleed him! I’ll bleed him!”
This created another scare. Auguste, turning very pale, jumped precipitately into the cab, and pulled the door to, saying:
“He’s got another knife! Wherever does he find all those knives? I beseech you, Théophile, send him away, try and arrange that he shall no longer be here when I come back. As though what has already happened were not bad enough for me!”