But Madame de Fermont arose quickly, went out of the chamber, and, addressing the receiver, she said, with a sparkling eye, and cheeks colored with indignation and alarm, "Sir, I had a bag of money in this trunk; some one has robbed me--yesterday, doubtless, for I went out for an hour with my daughter. This money must be found. Do you hear? You are responsible." "Some one robbed you! It is not true; my house is honest," said the receiver, harshly and insolently. "You say that, so as not to pay me the twenty sous." "I tell you that this money, all that I possessed in the world, some one has stolen; it must be found, or I'll make a complaint. Oh! I shall spare nothing, respect nothing--I notify you!" "That would be very fine of you, who have no papers; go and make your complaint; go at once! I defy you." The unhappy woman was overcome. She could not go out and leave her daughter alone in bed, since the fright she had received in the morning, and, above all, after the threats addressed to her by the receiver. He continued, "It is a cheat; you had no more a bag of silver than a bag of gold; you don't want to pay me the postage, hey? Good! all the same; when you pass before my door, I will tear off your old black shawl from your shoulders; it is very threadbare, but it is worth at least twenty sous." "Oh! sir," cried Madame de Fermont, bursting into tears, "have pity on us. This small sum was all we had--my daughter and I; that stolen, we have nothing left--nothing, do you understand? nothing-but to starve." "What would you have me to do? If it is true that you are robbed, and silver, too, it has been spent long since: the money--" "Alas!" "The lad who stole them would not have been simple enough to mark the money and keep it here, so that he might be caught--if it is some one in this house, which I do not believe--for, as I said only this morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, here is no place for plunder! if you are robbed, it is your misfortune. For should you make a hundred thousand complaints, you would not recover a sou--you would gain nothing by it, I tell you--believe me. Well," cried the receiver, seeing Madame de Fermont stagger, "what's the matter? You turn pale? Take care of your mother, she is sick," added he, advancing in time to save her from falling. The fictitious energy which had so long sustained her gave way under this new affliction. "Mother, what is the matter?" cried Claire, still in bed. The receiver, yet active and strong for his age, seized with a transitory feeling of pity, took Madame de Fermont in his arms, pushed open the door, and entered, saying, "Mademoiselle, pardon me for coming in while you are in bed, but I must bring in your mother; she has fainted; it can't last."