That evening when Joseph returned, bringing his mother from Madame
Desroches's, the concierge told him of Philippe's freak,--how he had
called intending to wait, and gone away again immediately.
"I am ruined--unless he has had the delicacy to take the copy," cried
the painter, instantly suspecting the theft. He ran rapidly up the
three flights and rushed into his studio. "God be praised!" he
ejaculated. "He is, what he always has been, a vile scoundrel."
Agathe, who had followed Joseph, did not understand what he was
saying; but when her son explained what had happened, she stood still,
with the tears in her eyes.
"Have I but one son?" she said in a broken voice.
"We have never yet degraded him to the eyes of strangers," said
Joseph; "but we must now warn the concierge. In future we shall have
to keep the keys ourselves. I'll finish his blackguard face from
memory; there's not much to do to it."
"Leave it as it is; it will pain me too much ever to look at it,"
answered the mother, heart-stricken and stupefied at such wickedness.
Philippe had been told how the money for this copy was to be expended;
moreover he knew the abyss into which he would plunge his brother
through the loss of the Rubens; but nothing restrained him. After this
last crime Agathe never mentioned him; her face acquired an expression
of cold and concentrated and bitter despair; one thought took
possession of her mind.
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