“No,” the priest said, “not now, presently.”
Turning round, he struck the strident Chinese cymbal and made it cry out.
Marguerite came at once.
Her master gave his orders so harshly that she bowed her head, afraid and docile:
“Bring us the lamp and all that is still to be put on the table; after that you must not come back unless I strike the gong.”
She went out, came back again and put a white china lamp on the tablecloth, a big piece of cheese, some fruit, and then left the room.
The Abbé said with determination:
“Now I am listening.”
Quite undisturbed, Philippe-Auguste filled up his plate with dessert and filled his glass with wine. The second bottle was nearly empty although the curé had not touched it. The young man, his mouth sticky with food and drink, stammering, resumed:
“The last one, well, here you are. It is pretty bad. I had returned home … where I stayed in spite of them because they were afraid of me … afraid of me. … Ah! You must not annoy me. … You know … they were living together and yet not together. He had two homes, he had, one the senator’s, the other the lover’s. But he lived at Mamma’s more than he did at his own home, because he could not do without her. Ah! … she was shrewd, she was knowing, Mamma … she knew how to hold a man, she did! She had taken him body and soul, and she kept him to the end. What fools men are! Well, I had returned and gained the mastery over them because they were afraid of me. I know my way about when necessary, and as for spite, cunning, and violence, I am anyone’s match. Then Mamma fell ill and he settled her in a beautiful place near Meulan in the middle of a park as big as a forest. That lasted about eighteen months … as I have already told you. Then we felt the end approaching. He came from Paris every day, he was full of grief, no doubt about it, real grief.
“Well, one morning they had been jabbering for nearly an hour, and I was wondering whatever they could be chattering about so long, when they called me; and Mamma said:
“ ‘I am on the point of death, and have something I want to tell you, in spite of the Count’s opinion’—she always called him the Count when she spoke about him—‘it is the name of your father, who is still alive.’
“I had asked for it more than a hundred times … more than a hundred times … my father’s name … more than a hundred times … and she had always refused to tell me. … I even think that I struck her one day to make her talk, but it was no use. And then, to get rid of me, she said that you had died penniless, that you were a good-for-nothing, an error of her youth, a maiden’s slip, any old thing. She told the story so well that I swallowed it whole, the story of your death.
“As she was saying: ‘It is your father’s name,’ the other, who was sitting in an armchair, repeated three times, just like this:
“ ‘You are wrong, you are wrong, you are wrong, Rosette.’
“Mamma sat up in bed. I can still see her with the red spots on her cheeks and her bright eyes, for she loved me in spite of all; she said to him:
“ ‘Then do something for him yourself, Philippe.’
“When talking to him she always called him ‘Philippe’ and me ‘Auguste.’
“He started shouting out like a madman:
“ ‘For that blackguard, never, for that rogue, that jailbird, that … that … that …’
“He called me all kinds of names just as if he had done nothing else all his life except look for names for me. I nearly lost my temper, when Mamma bade me be quiet, and said to him:
“ ‘Then you want him to die of hunger, as I have nothing to give him.’
“He replied, not at all worried:
“ ‘Rosette, for thirty years I have given you thirty-five thousand francs a year, that makes over a million. Because of me you have led the life of a rich woman, a well-loved woman, and, I dare to add, a happy woman. I owe nothing to this blackguard who has spoilt our last years together, and he will get nothing from me. Useless to insist. Let him know the name of the other one, if you wish. I am sorry, but I wash my hands of the matter.’
“Then Mamma turned towards me. I said to myself: ‘God … I am going to get my own father back … ; if he has any cash, I am a saved man. …’
“She continued:
“ ‘Your father, the Baron of Vilbois, is now known as the Abbé Vilbois, curé of Girandou: near Toulon. He was my lover when I left him for this man.’ She then told me everything except how she had tricked you about her pregnancy. But, there it is, women never tell the truth.”
He sniggered, unconcerned, displaying all his vileness. He went on drinking and, with a still smiling face, continued:
“Mamma died two days … two days later. We followed her coffin to the grave, he and I … wasn’t it comical! … eh! … he and I … and three servants … that was all. He was weeping like a cow … we were side by side … you would have said it was Papa and Papa’s dear boy.
“Then we went home. Only the two of us. I said to myself: ‘I must be off, without a halfpenny.’ I had just fifty francs. What could I do to pay him out?
“He touched my arm and said:
“ ‘I want to speak to you.’
“I followed him to his study. He sat down before his table and plunged into tears, said that he would not treat me as badly as he had told Mamma he would; he begged me not to worry you. … As for that, that is our business, yours and mine. … He offered me a thousand-franc note … a thousand … a thousand … what could I do with
