'That hussy of a sister of yours says everything that is bad of us to the landlady,' Madame Faujas perpetually complained. 'I can see through her game. She wants to supplant us and to get everything for herself. She is trying to settle herself down in the drawing-room like a fine lady, the slut!'
The priest however paid no attention to what his mother said; he only broke out into sharp gestures of impatience at her complaints. One day he got quite angry and exclaimed:
'I beg of you, mother, do leave me in peace. Don't talk to me any more about Olympe or Trouche. Let them go and hang themselves, if they like.'
'But they are seizing the whole house, Ovide. They are perfect rats. When you want your share, you will find that they have gnawed it all away. You are the only one who can keep them in check.'
He looked at his mother with a faint smile.
'You love me very much, mother,' said he, 'and I forgive you. Make your mind easy; I want something very different from the house. It isn't mine, and I only keep what I gain. You will be very proud when you see my share. Trouche has been useful to me, and we must shut our eyes a little.'
Madame Faujas was then obliged to beat a retreat; but she did so with very bad grace. The absolute disinterestedness of her son made her, with her material baser desires and careful economical nature, quite desperate. She would have liked to lock the house up so that Ovide might find it ready in perfect order for his occupation whenever he might want it. The Trouches, with their grasping ways, caused her all the torment and despair felt by a miser who is being preyed upon by strangers. It was exactly as though they were wasting her own substance, fattening upon her own flesh, and reducing herself and her beloved son to penury and wretchedness. When the Abbé forbade her to oppose the gradual invasion of the Trouches, she made up her mind that she would at any rate save all she could from the hands of the spoilers, and so she began pilfering from the cupboards, just as Olympe did. She also fastened big pockets underneath her skirts, and had a chest which she filled with all the things she collected together—provisions, linen, and miscellaneous articles.
'What is that you are stowing away there, mother?' the Abbé asked one evening as he went into her room, attracted by the noise which she made in moving the chest.
She began to stammer out a reply, but the priest understood it all at a glance, and flew into a violent rage.
'It is too shameful!' he said. 'You have turned yourself into a thief, now! What would the consequences be if you were to be detected? I should be the talk of the whole town!'