but he thoroughly understood that such a
blow might be fatal when it came after twenty years' perseverance. About
five o'clock, as a deep silence reigned in the little _appartement_, and
the sick woman, watched by Joseph and his mother, the one sitting at
the foot, the other at the head of her bed, was expecting her grandson
Bixiou, whom Desroches had gone to fetch, the sound of Philippe's step
and cane resounded on the staircase.

"There he is! there he is!" cried the Descoings, sitting up in bed and
suddenly able to use her paralyzed tongue.

Agathe and Joseph were deeply impressed by this powerful effect of the
horror which violently agitated the old woman. Their painful suspense
was soon ended by the sight of Philippe's convulsed and purple face, his
staggering walk, and the horrible state of his eyes, which were deeply
sunken, dull, and yet haggard; he had a strong chill upon him, and his
teeth chattered.

"Starvation in Prussia!" he cried, looking about him. "Nothing to eat
or drink?--and my throat on fire! Well, what's the matter? The devil is
always meddling in our affairs. There's my old Descoings in bed, looking
at me with her eyes as big as saucers."

"Be silent, monsieur!" said Agathe, rising. "At least, respect the
sorrows you have caused."

"_Monsieur_, indeed!" he cried, looking at his mother. "My dear little
mother, that won't do. Have you ceased to love your son?"

"Are you worthy of love? Have you forgotten what you did yesterday?
Go and find yourself another home; you cannot live with us any
longer,--that is, after to-morrow," she added; "for in the state you are
in now it is difficult--"

"To turn me out,--is that it?" he interrupted. "Ha! are you going to
play the melodrama of 'The Banished Son'? Well done! is that how you
take things? You are all a pretty set! What harm have I done? I've
cleaned out the old woman's mattress. 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 o