A buzz of sympathy responded to this appeal. In the character of an eye-witness, madame almost became a heroine. Fanchon timidly inquired,—
“He is old?”
“He looked half dead before.”
“And he is hurt?”
“Hurt! Of what then do you conceive our skulls to be composed? of granite—iron—india-rubber? Tenez, I heard it crack, I tell you; and after that there is not much to be said.”
“No, assuredly.”
“Madame has reason.”
Veuve Angelin looked proudly at Nannon: Nannon laughed.
“Since the monsieur is dead, it is strange that Monsieur Deshoulières should trouble himself to pass the morning with him,” she said.
“And why?” demanded Mère Angelin, reddening with anger. “Is it likely,—I put the question to you all, mesdames,—is it likely that she—she!—should be a better judge of what is strange in the proceedings of Monsieur Deshoulières than I who have lived in his service for nearly fifteen months?”