The blood suddenly flew to Père Guinardon’s head.
“That’s enough of it,” he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins standing out on his forehead.
And he dropped the Lucretius into his jacket pocket.
Straightway old Sariette flew at the antiquary, assailed him with sudden fury, and, frail and weakly as he was, butted him back into young Octavie’s armchair.
Guinardon, in furious amazement, belched forth the most horrible abuse on the old maniac and gave him a punch that sent him staggering back four paces against the Coronation of the Virgin, by Fra Angelico, which fell down with a crash. Sariette returned to the charge, and tried to drag the book out of the pocket in which it lay hid. This time Père Guinardon would really have floored him had he not been blinded by the blood that was rushing to his head, and hit sideways at the worktable of his absent mistress. Sariette fastened himself on to his bewildered adversary, held him down in the armchair, and with his little bony hands clutched him by the neck, which, red as it was already, became a deep crimson. Guinardon struggled to get free, but the little fingers, feeling the mass of soft, warm flesh about them, embedded themselves in it with delicious ecstasy. Some unknown force made them hold fast to their prey. Guinardon’s throat began to rattle, saliva was oozing from one corner of his mouth. His enormous frame quivered now and again beneath the grasp; but the tremors grew more and more intermittent and spasmodic. At last they ceased. The murderous hands did not let go their hold. Sariette had to make a violent effort to loose them. His temples were buzzing. Nevertheless he could hear the rain falling outside, muffled steps going past on the pavement, newspaper men shouting in the distance. He could see umbrellas passing along in the dim light. He drew the book from the dead man’s pocket and fled.
The fair Octavie did not go back to the shop that night. She went to sleep in a little entresol underneath the bric-a-brac stores which Monsieur de Blancmesnil had recently bought for her in this same Rue de Courcelles. The workman whose task it was to shut up the shop found the antiquary’s body still warm. He called Madame Lenain, the concierge, who laid Guinardon on the couch, lit a couple of candles, put a sprig of box in a saucer of holy water, and closed the dead man’s eyes. The doctor who was called in to certify the death ascribed it to apoplexy.
Zéphyrine, informed of what had happened by Madame Lenain, hastened to the house, and sat up all night with the body. The dead man looked as if he were sleeping. In the flickering light of the candles El Greco’s Saint mounted upwards like a wreath of smoke, the gold of the Primitives gleamed in the shadows. Near the deathbed a little woman by Baudouin was plainly discernible giving herself a douche. All through the night Zéphyrine’s lamentations could be heard fifty yards away.
“He’s dead, he’s dead!” she kept saying. “My friend, my divinity, my all, my love—But no! he is not dead, he moves. It is I, Michel; I, your Zéphyrine. Awake, hear me! Answer me; I love you; if ever I caused you pain, forgive me. Dead! dead! O my God! See how beautiful he is. He was so good, so clever, so kind. My God! My God! My God! If I had been there he would not now be lying dead. Michel! Michel!”
When morning came she was silent. They thought she had fallen asleep. She was dead too.
XXXII
Which describes how Nectaire’s flute was heard in the tavern of Clodomir.
Madame de la Verdelière having failed to force an entrée as sick-nurse, returned after several days had elapsed—during the absence of Madame des Aubels—to ask Maurice d’Esparvieu for his subscription to the French churches. Arcade led her to the bedside of the convalescent. Maurice whispered in the angel’s ear:
“Traitor, deliver me from this ogress immediately, or you will be answerable for the evil which will soon befall.”
“Be calm,” said Arcade, with a confident air.
After the conventional complimentary flourishes, Madame de la Verdelière signed to Maurice to dismiss the angel. Maurice feigned not to understand. And Madame de la Verdelière disclosed the ostensible reason of her visit.
“Our churches,” she said, “our beloved country churches—what is to become of them?”
Arcade gazed at her angelically and sighed.
“They will disappear, Madame; they will fall into ruin. And what a pity! I shall be inconsolable. The church amid the villagers’ cottages is like the hen amidst her chickens.”
“Just so!” exclaimed Madame de la Verdelière with a delighted smile. “It is just like that.”
“And the spires, Madame?”
“Oh, Monsieur, the spires! …”
“Yes, the spires, Madame, that stick up into the skies towards the little Cherubim, like so many syringes.”
Madame de la Verdelière incontinently left the place.
That same day Monsieur l’Abbé Patouille came to offer the wounded man good counsel and consolation. He exhorted him to break with his bad companions and to be reconciled to his family.
He drew a picture of the sorrowful father, the mother in tears, ready to receive their long-lost child with open arms. Renouncing with manly effort a life of profligacy and deluding joys, Maurice would recover his peace and strength of mind, he would free himself from devouring chimeras, and shake off the Evil Spirit.
Young d’Esparvieu thanked Abbé Patouille for all his kindness, and made a protestation of his religious feelings.
“Never,” said he, “have I had such faith. And never have I been in such need of it. Just imagine, Monsieur l’Abbé, I have to teach my guardian angel his catechism all over again, for he has quite forgotten it!”
Monsieur l’Abbé Patouille heaved a deep sigh, and exhorted his dear child to pray, there being no other resource but prayer for a soul assailed by the Devil.
“Monsieur l’Abbé,” asked Maurice, “may I introduce
