“How, poor woman!” cried Hortense, sourly. “It’s easy to see that you also have things to reproach yourself with!”
She at once regretted her cruelty, and, taking her sister in her arms, kissed her, and swore that she did not mean it. Then they were silent. But still they could not sleep, so continued the story, their eyes wide open in the darkness.
The next morning, Monsieur Josserand did not feel very well. Up till two o’clock, he had persisted in addressing wrappers, in spite of a lowness of spirits, and of a gradual loss of strength, of which he had been complaining for some time. He got up, however, and dressed himself; but, when he was on the point of starting for his office, he felt so feeble that he sent a messenger with a letter to inform the brothers Bernheim of his indisposition.
The family were about to have their breakfast. On seeing her husband remain, Madame Josserand decided not to hide Berthe any longer; she was already sick of all the mystery, and was, moreover, expecting every minute to see Auguste come up and create a disturbance.
“What! you’re going to breakfast with us! whatever is the matter?” asked the father in great surprise, on beholding his daughter, her eyes heavy with sleep, her bosom half-bursting through Hortense’s too tight dressing-gown.
“My husband has written to say that he is obliged to stay at Lyons,” answered she, “so I thought of spending the day with you.”
“Is it really true? You are not hiding anything from me?” murmured he.
“What an idea! why should I hide anything from you?”
Madame Josserand merely allowed herself to shrug her shoulders. What was the use of all those precautions? to gain an hour, perhaps; it was not worth while; the father would always have to receive the blow in the end. The breakfast, however, passed off most pleasantly.
But a regrettable scene spoilt the end of the breakfast. All on a sudden, Madame Josserand addressed the servant: