“What of that?”
“It is my nerves. They are not like yours, my angel. If we stay here longer I shall have it by to-morrow. I feel it. And the children—”
“Bah! What folly! Do you not know that if this fever carries off some, there will be others wanting to make their testaments? Do you not know that your work will be doubled? Hé! Answer me that!”
Her voice had risen to its stormy pitch, but Ignace was beyond caring.
“I must go,” he said, feebly.
Madame looked at him steadily. She saw that he was speaking truth. He must go, or if he stayed he would soon become a victim to his terror. “Attend then,” she said, changing her tone and speaking with a touch of scorn. “You shall go.”
“Zénobie, my treasure—”
“Hush. You shall go, I say. My mother at Tours will take you in, and you may, if you choose, depart at once.—Charles has been clerk long enough to understand the business with my superintendence.”
“Perfectly, perfectly. You need have no apprehension on that score. To tell the truth, my health is become so indifferent that even without this unhappy state of things I must have sought a little rest.”
Madame looked at him with a peculiar expression in her face.