“I see,” said Madame Cardinal, winking.
“To-night, then,” said Cerizet, not wishing to prolong the conversation.
He had a strong sense of the difficulty and danger of the affair, and was very reluctant to be seen in the street conversing with his accomplice.
Returning to her uncle’s garret, Madame Cardinal found him still in a state of semi-torpor; she relieved Madame Perrache, and bade her good-bye, going to the door to receive a supply of wood, all sawed, which she had ordered from the Auvergnat in the rue Ferou.
Into an earthen pot, which she had bought of the right size to fit upon the hole in the stoves of the poor where they put their soup-kettles, she now threw the poppies, pouring over them two-thirds of the wine she had brought back with her. Then she lighted a fire beneath the pot, intending to obtain the decoction agreed upon as quickly as possible. The crackling of the wood and the heat, which soon spread about the room, brought Toupillier out of his stupor. Seeing the stove lighted he called out:—
“Who is making a fire here? Do you want to burn the house down?”
“Why, uncle,” said the Cardinal, “it is wood I bought with my own money, to warm your wine. The doctor doesn’t want you to drink it cold.”
“Where is it, that wine?” demanded Toupillier, calming down a little at the thought that the fire was not burning at his expense.
“It must come to a boil,” said his nurse; “the doctor insisted upon that. Still, if you’ll be good I’ll give you half a glass of it cold, just to wet your whistle. I’ll take that upon myself, but don’t you tell the doctor.”
“Doctor! I won’t have a doctor; they are all scoundrels, invented to kill people,” cried Toupillier, whom the idea of drink had revived. “Come, give me the wine!” he said, in the tone of a man whose patience had come to an end.