‘Bah!’ cried the scornful voice of Mère Fromard. ‘What is thy wife’s illness to him? Didn’t he steal my poor Guillaume’s money, and the little _dot_ I brought him on our marriage day? Five hundred and fifty francs, messieurs—every _sou_ owed us by that black-hearted old villain! and he let my husband die for want of bread and meat. I wish I could tear him in pieces, and would be too good an end for him. _Sacré!_’ ‘And much good you’d get out of his carcase, Mère Fromard!’ interposed Madame Marmoret; ‘better wait, I tell you, till it’s all over, and then the law must give us our rights!’ ‘Madame! Madame!’ said her master, in a mildly reproachful voice, ‘is it you that can say no better of me than that! You, who have lived under my roof and eaten my bread for more than twenty years!’ ‘Lived under your roof—pig! Aye! that I have, and done you good service for it too! Haven’t I baked and boiled and mended and cleaned for you and yours for twenty-two years last Candlemass! And what wages have I received in return? None! Not a _sou_—not a _centime_! I have gone on and on, because I knew if I left you I should get nothing, and you have promised and promised till I’m sick of the sound of your voice or the sight of your face. I should have summoned you before the _préfet_ and had my rights years ago if it hadn’t been for _la petite_ Ange, and you know it—_vaurien_ as you are—and have held the child as a threat over my head in consequence.’ ‘Down with him!’ shouted half a dozen voices; ‘down with the man who uses his own child as an instrument wherewith to scourge the poor, whom she is so good to! Don’t show him any pity! He has never shown any for our wives or children!’ They pressed so closely upon him, and their faces were so distorted by passion, that I became horribly alarmed for his safety. Had Mr. Charteris been in the house, I should have summoned him at once to my assistance, but he had gone out shooting with Armand, and was miles and miles away. Mr. Lovett’s face was as pale and set as marble, but he continued in the same position and evinced no outward signs of fear. ‘Cannot you speak a little lower, my friends?’ he expostulated, in a firm voice. ‘I suppose you do not wish the whole town to hear your complaints?’ ‘What do we care who hears us?’ replied the man in the blouse and the peaked cap, whose name was Dubois; ‘all St. Pucelle knows you to be a robber! The wider the truth is spread the better!’ ‘I know I owe you all some money,’ said Mr. Lovett, ‘and when I can pay you, I will. At present it is impossible, and you will get no good by keeping me a prisoner in my own yard. You had much better disperse quietly, and leave me in peace to see what arrangements I can make to satisfy you.’