The poor child, after casting a doubtful look at her brother, whom she could not make up her mind to leave, timidly mounted the steps.
The monk took her insolently by the chin with his coarse hand, turned up her face which she held down, and said to her: "Pretty one, you will warn your father that if he does not pay eight days from now his rent in kind and the hundred crowns which he owes, there is a farmer who is more solvent than he who wants the farm and who will obtain it. As your father is a good fellow, they will give him eight days—but for that, they would have turned him out to-day."
"My God! my God!" said the children, weeping and clasping their hands, "there is no money at home. Our poor father is sick. Alas! what shall we do?"
"You will do what you can," said the monk, "that is the order of the prior;" and he made a sign to the young girl to go.
The two children threw themselves into each other's arms, sobbing, and saying: "Our father will die of this—he will die!"
Croustillac, half-hidden by a post of the shed, had been at once touched and angered by this scene. At the moment the monk was about to close the door, the Gascon said to him: "Reverend Father, a word—is this the Abbey of St. Quentin?"
"Yes, and what of it?" said the monk rudely.
"You will willingly give me a lodging till to-morrow, will you not?"
"Hum—always beggars," said the monk. "Very well; go and ring at the porter's gate. They will give you a bundle of straw and give you bread and soup." Then he added: "These vagabonds are the plague of religious houses."
The adventurer became crimson, drew up his tall form, thrust, with a blow of his fist, his fur cap over his eyes, struck the earth with his stick, and cried in a threatening tone: "Zounds! Reverend Father, know your company a little better, at least."