“A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here,” he said.
All three raised their heads slightly at the same instant, but kept their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.
“What do you say?”
“My mother has just died.”
Whereupon one of them said: “Oh! By Jove!” with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: “Is that all!”
Caravan had expected some of those expressions that are said to “come from the heart,” and when he saw how his news was received he left the table, indignant at their calmness before a friend’s sorrow, although at that moment he was so dazed with grief that he hardly felt it, and went home.
His wife was waiting for him in her nightgown, sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the inheritance.
“Undress yourself,” she said; “we will talk when we are in bed.”
He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, he said:
“But there is nobody up there.”
“I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her place at three o’clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep.”
He only partially undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything that might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head, he joined his wife, who had just got in between the sheets. For some time they remained side by side, and neither of them spoke. She was thinking.
Even in bed, her nightcap was adorned with a pink bow, and was pushed rather over one ear, as was the way with all the caps that she wore. Presently, she turned toward him and said:
“Do you know whether your mother made a will?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“I—I do not think so. No, I am sure that she did not.”
His wife looked at him, and she said, in a low, furious voice:
“I call that infamous; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged her! Your sister would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I daresay that you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one’s children in ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death; at any rate, that is how honourable people act. So I have had all my worry and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!”
Poor Caravan, who felt nearly distracted, kept on saying:
“My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet.”
She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner, she continued:
“We must let your sister know tomorrow.”
He started, and said:
“Of course we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a telegram the first thing in the morning.”
“No,” she replied, like a woman who has foreseen everything; “no, do not send it before ten or eleven o’clock, so that we may have time to turn round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If we let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and will give us time to look round.”
But Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and in the same timid voice in which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him tremble, he said:
“I must let them know at the office.”
“Why?” she replied. “On such occasions like this, it is always excusable to forget. Take my advice, and don’t let him know; your chief will not be able to say anything to you, and you will put him into a nice fix.”
“Oh! yes, I shall, indeed, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue.”
And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his chief’s face; while the body of the dead old woman lay upstairs, beside the sleeping servant.
But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were preoccupied by something which she did not care to mention. But at last she said:
“Your mother had given you her clock, had she not; the girl playing at cup and ball?”
He thought for a moment, and then replied:
“Yes, yes; she said to me a long time ago, when she first came here: ‘I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me well.’ ”
Madame Caravan was reassured, and regained her serenity, and said:
“Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get your sister here, she will prevent us from having it.”
He hesitated: “Do you think so?” That made her angry.
“I certainly think so; as soon as it is in our possession, she will know nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just the same with the chest of drawers with the marble top that is in her room; she gave it to me one day when she was in a good temper. We will bring it down at the same time.”
Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:
“But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!”
She turned on him furiously.
“Oh! Indeed! Will you never alter? You would let your children die of hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong to us, since she gave it to me? And if your sister is
