This apparent coolness, this indifference to all his observations, exasperated Monsieur Chebe.  He suddenly changed his tactics, and adopted, in addressing his son-in-law, the serious, peremptory tone which one uses with children or lunatics.

“Well, I say that you haven’t any right to take anything away from here.  I remonstrate formally, with all my strength as a man, with all my authority as a father.  Do you suppose I am going to let you drive my child into the street.  No, indeed!  Oh! no, indeed!  Enough of such nonsense as that!  Nothing more shall go out of these rooms.”

And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the door, planted himself in front of it with a heroic gesture.  Deuce take it! his own interest was at stake in the matter.  The fact was that when his child was once in the gutter he ran great risk of not having a feather bed to sleep on himself.  He was superb in that attitude of an indignant father, but he did not keep it long.  Two hands, two vises, seized his wrists, and he found himself in the middle of the room, leaving the doorway clear for the workmen.

“Chebe, my boy, just listen,” said Risler, leaning over him.  “I am at the end of my forbearance.  Since this morning I have been making superhuman efforts to restrain myself, but it would take very little now to make my anger burst all bonds, and woe to the man on whom it falls!  I am quite capable of killing some one.  Come!  Be off at once!—­”

There was such an intonation in his son-in-law’s voice, and the way that son-in-law shook him as he spoke was so eloquent, that Monsieur Chebe was fully convinced.  He even stammered an apology.  Certainly Risler had good reason for acting as he had.  All honorable people would be on his side.  And he backed toward the door as he spoke.  When he reached it, he inquired timidly if Madame Chebe’s little allowance would be continued.

“Yes,” was Risler’s reply, “but never go beyond it, for my position here is not what it was.  I am no longer a partner in the house.”

Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazement, and assumed the idiotic expression which led many people to believe that the accident that had happened to him—­exactly like that of the Duc d’Orleans, you know—­was not a fable of his own invention; but he dared not make the slightest observation.  Surely some one had changed his son-in-law.  Was this really Risler, this tiger-cat, who bristled up at the slightest word and talked of nothing less than killing people?

He took to his heels, recovered his self-possession at the foot of the stairs, and walked across the courtyard with the air of a conqueror.

When all the rooms were cleared and empty, Risler walked through them for the last time, then took the key and went down to Planus’s office to hand it to Madame Georges.

“You can let the apartment,” he said, “it will be so much added to the income of the factory.”

“But you, my friend?”