“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 of a commander of a squadron of the dragoons of the Guard!” “She has paid me back all that she owed me,” cried Agathe, rising and turning an angry face to her son; “and besides, that is my affair. You have killed her. Go away, my son,” she added, with a gesture that took all her remaining strength, “and never let me see you again. You are a monster.” “I kill her?” “Her trey has turned up,” cried Joseph, “and you stole the money for her stake.” “Well, if she is dying of a lost trey, it isn’t I who have killed her,” said the drunkard. “Go, go!” said Agathe. “You fill me with horror; you have every vice. My God! is this my son?” A hollow rattle sounded in Madame Descoings’s throat, increasing Agathe’s anger.