“Folly of youth,” said Birotteau, assuming for the nonce the tone of a free-thinker.
“Listen to me, Birotteau! You are all upset; you don’t go to the manufactory any more; there is something the matter, I feel it! You must tell me; I must know what it is.”
“Well,” said Birotteau, “we came very near being ruined,—we were ruined this very morning; but it is all safe now.”
And he told the horrible story of his two weeks’ misery.
“So that was the cause of your illness!” exclaimed Constance.
“Yes, mamma,” cried Cesarine, “and papa has been so courageous! All that I desire in life is to be loved as he loves you. He has thought only of your grief.”
“My dream is fulfilled!” said the poor woman, dropping upon the sofa at the corner of the fireplace, pale, livid, terrified. “I foresaw it all. I warned you on that fatal night, in our old room which you pulled to pieces, that we should have nothing left but our eyes to weep with. My poor Cesarine, I—”
“Now, there you go!” cried Cesar; “you will take away from me the courage I need.”
“Forgive me, dear friend,” said Constance, taking his hand, and pressing it with a tenderness which went to the heart of the poor man. “I do wrong. Misfortune has come; I will be silent, resigned, strong to bear it. No, you shall never hear a complaint from me.” She threw herself into his arms, weeping, and whispering, “Courage, dear friend, courage! I will have courage for both, if necessary.”
“My oil, wife,—my oil will save us!”