Agathe, horrified, went down stairs and asked if Philippe had come in during the day.  The concierge related the tale of his return and the locksmith.  The mother, heart-stricken, went back a changed woman.  White as the linen of her chemise, she walked as we might fancy a spectre walks, slowly, noiselessly, moved by some superhuman power, and yet mechanically.  She held a candle in her hand, whose light fell full upon her face and showed her eyes, fixed with horror.  Unconsciously, her hands by a desperate movement had dishevelled the hair about her brow; and this made her so beautiful with anguish that Joseph stood rooted in awe at the apparition of that remorse, the vision of that statue of terror and despair.

“My aunt,” she said, “take my silver forks and spoons.  I have enough to make up the sum; I took your money for Philippe’s sake; I thought I could put it back before you missed it.  Oh!  I have suffered much.”

She sat down.  Her dry, fixed eyes wandered a little.

“It was he who did it,” whispered the old woman to Joseph.

“No, no,” cried Agathe; “take my silver plate, sell it; it is useless to me; we can eat with yours.”

She went to her room, took the box which contained the plate, felt its light weight, opened it, and saw a pawnbroker’s ticket.  The poor mother uttered a dreadful cry.  Joseph and the Descoings ran to her, saw the empty box, and her noble falsehood was of no avail.  All three were silent, and avoided looking at each other; but the next moment, by an almost frantic gesture, Agathe laid her finger on her lips as if to entreat a secrecy no one desired to break.  They returned to the salon, and sat beside the fire.

“Ah! my children,” cried Madame Descoings, “I am stabbed to the heart:  my trey will turn up, I am certain of it.  I am not thinking of myself, but of you two.  Philippe is a monster,” she continued, addressing her niece; “he does not love you after all that you have done for him.  If you do not protect yourself against him he will bring you to beggary.  Promise me to sell out your Funds and buy a life-annuity.  Joseph has a good profession and he can live.  If you will do this, dear Agathe, you will never be an expense to Joseph.  Monsieur Desroches has just started his son as a notary; he would take your twelve thousand francs and pay you an annuity.”

Joseph seized his mother’s candlestick, rushed up to his studio, and came down with three hundred francs.

“Here, Madame Descoings!” he cried, giving her his little store, “it is no business of ours what you do with your money; we owe you what you have lost, and here it is, almost in full.”

“Take your poor little all?—­the fruit of those privations that have made me so unhappy! are you mad, Joseph?” cried the old woman, visibly torn between her dogged faith in the coming trey, and the sacrilege of accepting such a sacrifice.

“Oh! take it if you like,” said Agathe, who was moved to tears by this action of her true son.