M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling: 

“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do to-morrow.”

The following day, at about nine o’clock in the morning, the postman gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy.  M. Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the afternoon.  He then handed his servant four letters for the mail.  One of them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the money.

Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.

Night came.  M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.

He was awakened by a strange noise.  He sat up in his bed and listened.  Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a ghost.

M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the light and rushed for the bed.  His master stretched out his hands to receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying to seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.

He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead and the third time in the chest.  He fought wildly, waving his arms around in the darkness, kicking and crying: 

“Denis!  Denis!  Are you mad?  Listen, Denis!”

But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a punch, and rushing forward again furiously.

M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the stomach.  But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began to shriek: 

“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”

The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored breathing in the darkness.

M. Marambot then went on: 

“I have received nothing.  M. Malois takes back what he said, the law-suit will take place; that is why you carried the letters to the mail.  Just read those on my desk.”

With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle.

He was covered with blood.  His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls, were spattered with red.  Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was also bloody from head to foot.

When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell unconscious.