"It is that lame man, who is always drunk," said the mother to her child. "Are you going to give me any fire! or I'll break all open, in the name of thunder?" "Sir, I have no fire." "You must have some matches, then; everybody has them; do you open-- come?" "Sir, go away." "You won't open?--one, two--" "I beg you to go away, or I will call." "Once--twice--three times--no, you won't! Then I'll break all down, then." And the wretch gave such a furious kick against the door, he burst it in, the miserable lock breaking at the first assault. The two women screamed with alarm. Madame de Fermont, notwithstanding her weakness, threw herself before the rough, and barred his entrance. "This is outrageous: you shall not come in," cried the unhappy mother; "I shall cry for help." "For what--for what?" answered he: "mustn't we be neighborly? If you had opened, I should not have broken in." Then, with the stupid obstinacy of drunkenness, he added staggering, "I wish to come in; I will come in, and I will not go out until I light my pipe." "I have neither fire nor matches. In the name of heaven, sir, retire." "It's not true; you say that so I sha'n't see the little one in bed. Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She is pretty; I want to see her. Take care of yourself; I'll scratch your face if you don't let me come in. I tell you that I will see the little one in bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything, and you along with it!" "Help! help!" cried Madame de Fermont, who felt the door giving way under the violent push of the lame man. Intimidated by the cries, the man stepped backward and shook his fist at Madame de Fermont, saying, "You shall pay me for this; I will return to-night--I'll catch hold of your tongue, and you cannot cry." And the Big Cripple, as they called him at Ravageurs' Island, descended the stairs, uttering horrible oaths. Madame de Fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing the lock broken, drew the table against the door to barricade it. Claire had been so alarmed at this horrible scene that she had fallen on her cot almost without emotion, with a violent attack of the nerves. Madame de Fermont, forgetting her own alarm, ran to her daughter, pressed her in her arms, made her drink a little water, and, with the most tender caresses, succeeded in calming her. "Be composed, my poor child--the bad man has gone away." Then the wretched mother cried, with a touching accent, "Yet it is this notary who is the cause of all our troubles. Compose yourself, my child," resumed she, tenderly embracing her daughter; "this wretch is gone." "Oh, mamma, if he should come back again? You see you have called for help, and no one has come. Oh! I entreat you; let us leave this house. I shall die here with fear." "How you tremble! you have a fever!"