He was seized with a horrible delirium of fever, and began to rave.  Joseph, assisted by old Desroches, who had come back, and by Bixiou, carried him to his room.  Doctor Haudry was obliged to write a line to the Hopital de la Charite and borrow a strait-waistcoat; for the delirium ran so high as to make him fear that Philippe might kill himself,—­he was raving.  At nine o’clock calm was restored.  The Abbe Loraux and Desroches endeavored to comfort Agathe, who never ceased to weep at her aunt’s bedside.  She listened to them in silence, and obstinately shook her head; Joseph and the Descoings alone knew the extent and depth of her inward wound.

“He will learn to do better, mother,” said Joseph, when Desroches and Bixiou had left.

“Oh!” cried the widow, “Philippe is right,—­my father cursed me:  I have no right to—­ Here, here is your money,” she said to Madame Descoings, adding Joseph’s three hundred francs to the two hundred found on Philippe.  “Go and see if your brother does not need something,” she said to Joseph.

“Will you keep a promise made to a dying woman?” asked Madame Descoings, who felt that her mind was failing her.

“Yes, aunt.”

“Then swear to me to give your property to young Desroches for a life annuity.  My income ceases at my death; and from what you have just said, I know you will let that wretch wring the last farthing out of you.”

“I swear it, aunt.”

The old woman died on the 31st of December, five days after the terrible blow which old Desroches had so innocently given her.  The five hundred francs—­the only money in the household—­were barely enough to pay for her funeral.  She left a small amount of silver and some furniture, the value of which Madame Bixiou paid over to her grandson Bixiou.  Reduced to eight hundred francs’ annuity paid to her by young Desroches, who had bought a business without clients, and himself took the capital of twelve thousand francs, Agathe gave up her appartement on the third floor, and sold all her superfluous furniture.  When, at the end of a month, Philippe seemed to be convalescent, his mother coldly explained to him that the costs of his illness had taken all her ready money, that she should be obliged in future to work for her living, and she urged him, with the utmost kindness, to re-enter the army and support himself.

“You might have spared me that sermon,” said Philippe, looking at his mother with an eye that was cold from utter indifference.  “I have seen all along that neither you nor my brother love me.  I am alone in the world; I like it best!”

“Make yourself worthy of our affection,” answered the poor mother, struck to the very heart, “and we will give it back to you—­”

“Nonsense!” he cried, interrupting her.

He took his old hat, rubbed white at the edges, stuck it over one ear, and went downstairs, whistling.

“Philippe! where are you going without any money?” cried his mother, who could not repress her tears.  “Here, take this—­”