I can't believe it. Philippe couldn't have watched you, cut
open the mattress, done it deliberately,--no, no!"
"I felt them this morning, when I made my bed after breakfast,"
repeated Madame Descoings.
Agathe, horrified, went down stairs and asked if Philippe had come in
during the day. The concierge related the tale of his return and the
locksmith. The mother, heart-stricken, went back a changed woman.
White as the linen of her chemise, she walked as we might fancy a
spectre walks, slowly, noiselessly, moved by some superhuman power,
and yet mechanically. She held a candle in her hand, whose light fell
full upon her face and showed her eyes, fixed with horror.
Unconsciously, her hands by a desperate movement had dishevelled the
hair about her brow; and this made her so beautiful with anguish that
Joseph stood rooted in awe at the apparition of that remorse, the
vision of that statue of terror and despair.
"My aunt," she said, "take my silver forks and spoons. I have enough
to make up the sum; I took your money for Philippe's sake; I thought I
could put it back before you missed it. Oh! I have suffered much."
She sat down. Her dry, fixed eyes wandered a little.
"It was he who did it," whispered the old woman to Joseph.
"No, no," cried Agathe; "take my silver plate, sell it; it is useless
to me; we can eat with yours."
She went to her room, took the box which contained the plate, felt its
light weight, opened it, and saw a pawnbroker's ticket.
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