What the devil is the good of
money kept in wool? Do you call that a crime? Didn't she take twenty
thousand francs from you? We are her creditors, and I've paid myself
as much as I could get,--that's all."
"My God! my God!" cried the dying woman, clasping her hands and
praying.
"Be silent!" exclaimed Joseph, springing at his brother and putting
his hand before his mouth.
"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.
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