“My God! my God!” cried the dying woman, clasping her hands and praying.

“Be silent!” exclaimed Joseph, springing at his brother and putting his hand before his mouth.

“To the right about, march! brat of a painter!” retorted Philippe, laying his strong hand on Joseph’s head, and twirling him round, as he flung him on a sofa.  “Don’t dare to touch the moustache of a commander of a squadron of the dragoons of the Guard!”

“She has paid me back all that she owed me,” cried Agathe, rising and turning an angry face to her son; “and besides, that is my affair.  You have killed her.  Go away, my son,” she added, with a gesture that took all her remaining strength, “and never let me see you again.  You are a monster.”

“I kill her?”

“Her trey has turned up,” cried Joseph, “and you stole the money for her stake.”

“Well, if she is dying of a lost trey, it isn’t I who have killed her,” said the drunkard.

“Go, go!” said Agathe.  “You fill me with horror; you have every vice.  My God! is this my son?”

A hollow rattle sounded in Madame Descoings’s throat, increasing Agathe’s anger.

“I love you still, my mother,—­you who are the cause of all my misfortunes,” said Philippe.  “You turn me out of doors on Christmas-day.  What did you do to grandpa Rouget, to your father, that he should drive you away and disinherit you?  If you had not displeased him, we should all be rich now, and I should not be reduced to misery.  What did you do to your father,—­you who are a good woman?  You see by your own self, I may be a good fellow and yet be turned out of house and home,—­I, the glory of the family—­”

“The disgrace of it!” cried the Descoings.

“You shall leave this room, or you shall kill me!” cried Joseph, springing on his brother with the fury of a lion.

“My God! my God!” cried Agathe, trying to separate the brothers.

At this moment Bixiou and Haudry the doctor entered.  Joseph had just knocked his brother over and stretched him on the ground.

“He is a regular wild beast,” he cried.  “Don’t speak another word, or I’ll—­”

“I’ll pay you for this!” roared Philippe.

“A family explanation,” remarked Bixiou.

“Lift him up,” said the doctor, looking at him.  “He is as ill as Madame Descoings; undress him and put him to bed; get off his boots.”

“That’s easy to say,” cried Bixiou, “but they must be cut off; his legs are swollen.”

Agathe took a pair of scissors.  When she had cut down the boots, which in those days were worn outside the clinging trousers, ten pieces of gold rolled on the floor.

“There it is,—­her money,” murmured Philippe.  “Cursed fool that I was, I forgot it.  I too have missed a fortune.”