"To the right about, march! brat of a painter!" retorted Philippe, laying his strong hand on Joseph's head, and twirling him round, as he flung him on a sofa. "Don't dare to touch the moustache of a commander of a squadron of the dragoons of the Guard!"
"She has paid me back all that she owed me," cried Agathe, rising and turning an angry face to her son; "and besides, that is my affair. You have killed her. Go away, my son," she added, with a gesture that took all her remaining strength, "and never let me see you again. You are a monster."
"I kill her?"
"Her trey has turned up," cried Joseph, "and you stole the money for her stake."
"Well, if she is dying of a lost trey, it isn't I who have killed her," said the drunkard.
"Go, go!" said Agathe. "You fill me with horror; you have every vice.
My God! is this my son?"
A hollow rattle sounded in Madame Descoings's throat, increasing
Agathe's anger.
"I love you still, my mother,—you who are the cause of all my misfortunes," said Philippe. "You turn me out of doors on Christmas-day. What did you do to grandpa Rouget, to your father, that he should drive you away and disinherit you? If you had not displeased him, we should all be rich now, and I should not be reduced to misery. What did you do to your father,—you who are a good woman? You see by your own self, I may be a good fellow and yet be turned out of house and home,—I, the glory of the family—"
"The disgrace of it!" cried the Descoings.
"You shall leave this room, or you shall kill me!" cried Joseph, springing on his brother with the fury of a lion.