“Well, what then?”
“What then? They’re here.”
“Yes, here, on that bookshelf, in front of your nose. So, in the circumstances, you see, as I am already the lawful owner, I can’t accept . . .”
“You thief! You thief!” shouted Siméon, shaking with rage and clenching his fist. “You’re nothing but a thief; and I’ll make you disgorge. Oh, you dirty thief!”
Dr. Géradec smiled very calmly and raised his hand in protest:
“This is strong language and quite unjustified! quite unjustified! Let me remind you that Mme. Mosgranem honored me with her affection. One day, or rather one morning, after a moment of expansiveness, ‘My dear friend,’ she said—she used to call me her dear friend—‘my dear friend, when I die’—she was given to those gloomy forebodings—‘when I die, I bequeath to you the contents of my home!’ Her home, at that moment, was the barge. Do you suggest that I should insult her memory by refusing to obey so sacred a wish?”
Old Siméon was not listening. An infernal thought was awakening in him; and he turned to the doctor with a movement of affrighted attention.
“We are wasting precious time, my dear sir,” said the doctor. “What have you decided to do?”
He was playing with the sheet of paper on which he had written the particulars required for the passport. Siméon came up to him without a word. At last the old man whispered: