Monsieur Saint-Martin, not having recovered himself, answered sharply: “Certainly I do not choose to remain in this city of the plague. My lawyer will be here to-day; and as to further proceedings, I shall be guided by him. He may suggest immediate action.”
“I should recommend your carrying it out at once,” replied M. Deshoulières gravely. Fabien, who hated ridicule, looked quickly at him to see whether he was serious or not, and could not satisfy himself.
“It is unendurable,” he muttered. “After having all one’s life been pestered by the vagaries of an old man, he might at least have spared his ridiculous restraints when he was dead, and could find no pleasure in them.”
“Is Mademoiselle Veuillot here?” asked the curé, looking up.
“She is. She is in the next room.”
“What do you propose to do?” said Fabien, disregarding.
“I have already told you, monsieur. Meanwhile you may employ any spurs with which your lawyer may furnish you,” replied M. Deshoulières impatiently. Thérèse was in the next room, and this man was indifferent.
“You ought to see Mademoiselle Veuillot at once,” said the curé, rising.
“Thérèse? Oh, yes. She is here, you say? By all means.”
She heard their voices in the passage; half rose, and sat down again, while the colour faded completely out of her face. In the balcony, Nannon was singing her little refrain,—