wrong not to go down and take my little all and pay
for my stakes at once. I meant to, and I don't know what prevented me.
Oh, yes!--my God! I went out to buy him some cigars."

"But," said Joseph, "you left the door locked. Besides, it is so
infamous. 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. The poor mother
uttered a dreadful cry. Joseph and the Descoings ran to her, saw the
empty box, and her noble falsehood was of no avail. All three were
silent, and avoided looking at each other; but the next moment, by an
almost frantic gesture, Agathe laid her finger on her lips as if to
entreat a secrecy no one desired to break. They returned to the salon,
and sat beside the fire.

"Ah! my children," cried Madame Descoings, "I am stabbed to the heart:
my trey will turn up, I am certain of it. I am not thinking of myself,
but of you two. Philippe is a monster," she continued, addressing her
niece; "he does not love you after all that you have done for him. If
you do not protect yourself against him he will bring you