though the dazzling pile of gold was before them. Presently La Sarriette
began to laugh.

"What a jolly time I would have with Jules if my uncle would give that
money to me!" said she.

Madame Lecoeur, however, seemed quite overwhelmed by this revelation,
crushed beneath the weight of the gold which she could not banish from
her sight. Covetous envy thrilled her. But at last, raising her skinny
arms and shrivelled hands, her finger-nails still stuffed with butter,
she stammered in a voice full of bitter distress: "Oh, I mustn't think
of it! It's too dreadful!"

"Well, it would all be yours, you know, if anything were to happen to
Monsieur Gavard," retorted Mademoiselle Saget. "If I were in your place,
I would look after my interests. That revolver means nothing good,
you may depend upon it. Monsieur Gavard has got into the hands of evil
counsellors; and I'm afraid it will all end badly."

Then the conversation again turned upon Florent. The three women
assailed him more violently than ever. And afterwards, with perfect
composure, they began to discuss what would be the result of all these
dark goings-on so far as he and Gavard were concerned; certainly it
would be no pleasant one if there was any gossiping. And thereupon they
swore that they themselves would never repeat a word of what they knew;
not, however, because that scoundrel Florent merited any consideration,
but because it was necessary, at all costs, to save that worthy Monsieur
Gavard from being compromised. Then they rose from their seats, and
Mademoiselle Saget was burning as if to go away when the butter dealer
asked her: "All the same, in case of accident, do you think that Madame
Leonce can be trusted? I dare say she has the key of the cupboard."

"Well, that's more than I can tell you," replied the old maid. "I
believe she's a very honest woman; but, after all, there's no telling.
There are circumstances, you know, which tempt the best of people.
Anyhow, I've warned you both; and you must do what you think proper."

As the three women stood there, taking leave of each other, the odour
of the cheeses seemed to become more pestilential than ever. It was a
cacophony of smells, ranging from the heavily oppressive odour of the
Dutch cheeses and the Gruyeres to the alkaline pungency of the Olivets.
From the Cantal, the Cheshire, and the goats' milk cheeses there seemed
to come a deep breath like the sound of a bassoon, amidst which the
sharp, sudden wh