“I love you still, my mother,--you who are the cause of all my misfortunes,” said Philippe. “You turn me out of doors on Christmas-day. What did you do to grandpa Rouget, to your father, that he should drive you away and disinherit you? If you had not displeased him, we should all be rich now, and I should not be reduced to misery. What did you do to your father,--you who are a good woman? You see by your own self, I may be a good fellow and yet be turned out of house and home,--I, the glory of the family--” “The disgrace of it!” cried the Descoings. “You shall leave this room, or you shall kill me!” cried Joseph, springing on his brother with the fury of a lion. “My God! my God!” cried Agathe, trying to separate the brothers. At this moment Bixiou and Haudry the doctor entered. Joseph had just knocked his brother over and stretched him on the ground. “He is a regular wild beast,” he cried. “Don’t speak another word, or I’ll--” “I’ll pay you for this!” roared Philippe. “A family explanation,” remarked Bixiou. “Lift him up,” said the doctor, looking at him. “He is as ill as Madame Descoings; undress him and put him to bed; get off his boots.” “That’s easy to say,” cried Bixiou, “but they must be cut off; his legs are swollen.” Agathe took a pair of scissors. When she had cut down the boots, which in those days were worn outside the clinging trousers, ten pieces of gold rolled on the floor. “There it is,--her money,” murmured Philippe. “Cursed fool that I was, I forgot it. I too have missed a fortune.” He was seized with a horrible delirium of fever, and began to rave. Joseph, assisted by old Desroches, who had come back, and by Bixiou, carried him to his room. Doctor Haudry was obliged to write a line to the Hopital de la Charite and borrow a strait-waistcoat; for the delirium ran so high as to make him fear that Philippe might kill himself,--he was raving. At nine o’clock calm was restored. The Abbe Loraux and Desroches endeavored to comfort Agathe, who never ceased to weep at her aunt’s bedside. She listened to them in silence, and obstinately shook her head; Joseph and the Descoings alone knew the extent and depth of her inward wound. “He will learn to do better, mother,” said Joseph, when Desroches and Bixiou had left. “Oh!” cried the widow, “Philippe is right,--my father cursed me: I have no right to--Here, here is your money,” she said to Madame Descoings, adding Joseph’s three hundred francs to the two hundred found on Philippe. “Go and see if your brother does not need something,” she said to Joseph. “Will you keep a promise made to a dying woman?” asked Madame Descoings, who felt that her mind was failing her. “Yes, aunt.” “Then swear to me to give your property to young Desroches for a life annuity. My income ceases at my death; and from what you have just said, I know you will let that wretch wring the last farthing out of you.” “I swear it, aunt.”