"Philippe," she said, in a choking voice, "promise not to kill
yourself, and all shall be forgotten."
Philippe looked at his sorrowing brother and at Madame Descoings,
whose eyes were full of tears, and thought to himself, "They are good
creatures." Then he took his mother in his arms, raised her and put
her on his knee, pressed her to his heart and whispered as he kissed
her, "For the second time, you give me life."
The Descoings managed to serve an excellent dinner, and to add two
bottles of old wine with a little "liqueur des iles," a treasure left
over from her former business.
"Agathe," she said at dessert, "we must let him smoke his cigars," and
she offered some to Philippe.
These two poor creatures fancied that if they let the fellow take his
ease, he would like his home and stay in it; both, therefore, tried to
endure his tobacco-smoke, though each loathed it. That sacrifice was
not so much as noticed by Philippe.
On the morrow, Agathe looked ten years older. Her terrors calmed,
reflection came back to her, and the poor woman had not closed an eye
throughout that horrible night. She was now reduced to six hundred
francs a year. Madame Descoings, like all fat women fond of good
eating, was growing heavy; her step on the staircase sounded like the
chopping of logs; she might die at any moment; with her life, four
thousand francs would disappear. What folly to rely on that resource!
What should she do? What would become of them? With her mind made up
to become a sick-nurse rather than be supported by her children,
Agathe did not think of herself.
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