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No one among the very ordinary persons who made the society of the two widows neither old Du Bruel nor old Claparon, nor Desroches the father, nor even the Abbe Loraux, Agathe's confessor noticed Joseph's faculty for observation. Absorbed in the line of his own tastes, the future colorist paid no attention to anything that concerned himself.
She stood still in dismay on recognizing the voice of her husband, who, a victim to Agathe's charms, to vanquish this strapping wench's not disinterested resistance, went to the length of saying: "My wife has not long to live, and if you like you may be a Baroness." Adeline gave a cry, dropped her candlestick, and fled.
Notwithstanding Agathe's silence on the subject, Madame Descoings had guessed the motive of this desire to earn money by women's-work.
Joseph, anxious about his future, studied all through this period with an ardor which several times made him ill in the midst of these tumultuous events. "It is the smell of the paints," Agathe said to Madame Descoings. "He ought to give up a business so injurious to his health." However, all Agathe's anxieties were at this time for her son the lieutenant-colonel.
"What to do! what to do!" he cried; and then, as he saw the tears running down Madame Agathe's cheeks, he in turn, with the ease of his nation, wept also. "That is what has determined me," said Madame Agathe, as not long ago she told of the day when she had given up hope. "Tears are for women, and even for them it is not well to shed many.
Monsieur Hochon is delighted with his conduct here; every one thinks highly of it. If he can be kept away from the temptations of Paris, he will end by being a comfort to you." Hearing these consolatory words Agathe's eyes filled with tears. Philippe played the saint to his mother, for he had need of her.
"I'll find a situation and put you to no expense; all I need for the present is board and lodging." Agathe kissed her son, and Madame Descoings slipped a hundred francs into his hand to pay for his losses of the night before. In ten days the furniture was sold, the appartement given up, and the change in Agathe's domestic arrangements accomplished with a celerity seldom seen outside of Paris.
The collation did not take place. Madame Descoings had lost her head; and in Agathe's heart was eternal mourning. The two rose late on Christmas morning. Ten o'clock had struck before Madame Descoings began to bestir herself about the breakfast, which was only ready at half-past eleven. At that hour, the oblong frames containing the winning numbers are hung over the doors of the lottery-offices.
"It is a relic of Sainte Solange, the patron saint of Berry," she said, "I saved it during the Revolution; wear it on your breast to-morrow." "Will it protect me from a sabre-thrust?" asked Philippe. "Yes," replied the old lady. "Then I have no right to wear that accoutrement any more than if it were a cuirass," cried Agathe's son. "What does he mean?" said Madame Hochon.
Agathe bore a strong likeness to the mother of Doctor Rouget. Just as gout is said to skip a generation and pass from grandfather to grandson, resemblances not uncommonly follow the same course. In like manner, the eldest of Agathe's children, who physically resembled his mother, had the moral qualities of his grandfather, Doctor Rouget.
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