“A quarter of a century is a long time, my dear Gaspard,” said he. “A quarter of a century’s daily and nightly intimate associations with another human being leaves a deep imprint in one’s soul. I have been very unhappy, it is true. But I have never been so unhappy and so hopeless as I am now. Let me be for a little. My head is stupefied.” “_Mon pauvre vieux_,” said Bigourdin, very gently. He glanced around and seeing a blanket, which Clothilde had used during her vigil, neatly folded by the _femme de Journée_ and laid upon a wooden chair, he threw it over the recumbent Fortinbras. “_Mon pauvre vieux_, you are exhausted. Stay there and go to sleep.” The very weary man closed his eyes. Two hours later, the _femme de journée_ appeared. Bigourdin, with his finger to his lips, pointed to the sleeper and told her to come in the morning. It was then six o’clock in the afternoon. Bigourdin wrapped in whatever coverings he could find, dozed in a ricketty armchair for many hours, until Fortinbras awoke with a start “I must have fallen asleep,” he said. “I’m very sorry. What is the time?” Bigourdin pulled out his watch. “Midnight,” said he. Fortinbras rose, passed both hands over his white flowing hair. “I too, like Clothilde, haven’t slept for two or three nights. Sleep came upon me all of a sudden, let me see——” he touched his broad forehead—“you brought me back here for some purpose.” “I did,” said Bigourdin. “Come and see.” He took the lamp from the table and led his brother-in-law into the bedroom. “I told you so,” said he, pointing to the bed. The upper ticking had been ripped clean away. And there, in the horsehair, on the side where Cécile had slept, were five or six odd little nests. And each nest was stuffed tight with banknotes and gold. * * * * * “It’s all yours,” said Fortinbras. Bigourdin, swinging arms like a windmill, swept imbeciles like Fortinbras to the thirty-two points of the compass. “It is the property of Cécile. I have nothing to do with it. I am a man of honour, not a scoundrel. It belonged to Cécile. It now belongs to you.” They argued for a long time until sheer hunger sent them forth. And over supper in a little restaurant of the quarter, they argued, until at last Bigourdin, very wearied, retired to the Hôtel de la Dordogne, and Fortinbras returned to the Rue Maugrabine, to find himself the unwilling possessor of about two thousand pounds. CHAPTER XVI