"You won't open?—one, two—"
"I beg you to go away, or I will call."
"Once—twice—three times—no, you won't! Then I'll break all down, then."
And the wretch gave such a furious kick against the door, he burst it in, the miserable lock breaking at the first assault. The two women screamed with alarm. Madame de Fermont, notwithstanding her weakness, threw herself before the rough, and barred his entrance.
"This is outrageous: you shall not come in," cried the unhappy mother;
"I shall cry for help."
"For what—for what?" answered he: "mustn't we be neighborly? If you had opened, I should not have broken in."
Then, with the stupid obstinacy of drunkenness, he added staggering, "I wish to come in; I will come in, and I will not go out until I light my pipe."
"I have neither fire nor matches. In the name of heaven, sir, retire."
"It's not true; you say that so I sha'n't see the little one in bed. Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She is pretty; I want to see her. Take care of yourself; I'll scratch your face if you don't let me come in. I tell you that I will see the little one in bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything, and you along with it!"
"Help! help!" cried Madame de Fermont, who felt the door giving way under the violent push of the lame man.