“Yes, Uncle Cyprien.... I do see anyone else who can scare father.... I am going there now, at once.... I shall work him up, rouse him to white heat.... And, I should be very disappointed if, with such heavy artillery, we could not overcome the resistance of father!”
The comparison made Mme. Raindal smile in spite of her tears:
“If you hope to succeed with him, go there now, dear! Alas! we have no time to waste!”
Thérèse bent over her and kissed her:
“Do cry, dear mother!... Courage!... I have an idea that we have not lost yet!...”
“May God hear you, my poor dearest!” murmured Mme. Raindal, rolling her eyes with a prayerful expression towards the ceiling.
Her Uncle Cyprie door was ajar when Thérèse reached the sixth floor. She knocked, asking at the same time: “May I come in?”
“Come in, come in!”
From the passage an odor of kerosene was already perceptible. Uncle Cyprien sat on a stool, a towel across his knees, cleaning his tricycle, which stood wheels up and saddle down, like an overturned carriage.
“I you, nephew!” he said, speaking through a corner of his mouth, the other being obstructed by an enormous cigar.... “Take a chair.... Yol excuse me, wo you? When I clean my machine, I get all mixed up if I stop in the middle of it.... Have you found a chair? Very good.... Well, I must say, I did expect you!... Nothing unpleasant, I hope?... Your father is not ill, is he?...”