Online answer, make money, why?

Online answer, make money, why?

The man jumped up from his seat.

"Insults!" he cried in a voice that could have been heard allthrough the house. "Do you call it an insult when a man claims hisown? If you think you can make me hush, you are mistaken in yourman, M. Favoral, Jun. I am not rich myself: my father has notstolen to leave me an income. It is not in gambling at the boursethat I made these ten thousand francs. It is by the sweat of mybody, by working hard night and day for years, by depriving myselfof a glass of wine when I was thirsty. And I am to lose them? Bythe holy name of heaven, we'll have to see about that! If everybodywas like me, there would not be so many scoundrels going about,their pockets filled with other people's money, and from the top oftheir carriage laughing at the poor fools they have ruined. Come,my ten thousand francs, canaille, or I take my pay on your back."Maxence, enraged, was about to throw himself upon the man, and adisgusting struggle was about to begin, when Mlle. Gilberte steppedbetween them.

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"Your threats are as cowardly as your insults, Monsieur Bertan,"she uttered in a quivering voice. "You have known us long enoughto be aware that we know nothing of our father's business, and thatwe have nothing ourselves. All we can do is to give up to ourcreditors our very last crumb. Thus it shall be done. And now,sir, please retire."There was so much dignity in her sorrow, and so imposing was herattitude, that the baker stood abashed.

"Ah! if that's the way," he stammered awkwardly; "and since youmeddle with it, mademoiselle" - And he retreated precipitately,growling at the same time threats and excuses, and slamming thedoors after him hard enough to break the partitions.

"What a disgrace!" murmured Mme. Favoral. Crushed by this lastscene, she was choking; and her children had to carry her to theopen window. She recovered almost at once; but thus, through thedarkness, bleak and cold, she had like a vision of her husband; and,throwing herself back,"0 great heavens!" she uttered, "where did he go when he left us?

Where is he now? What is he doing? What has become of him?"Her married life had been for Mme. Favoral but a slow torture. Itwas in vain that she would have looked back through her past lifefor some of those happy days which leave their luminous track inlife, and towards which the mind turns in the hours of grief.

Vincent Favoral had never been aught but a brutal despot, abusingthe resignation of his victim. And yet, had he died, she would havewept bitterly over him in all the sincerity of her honest and simplesoul. Habit! Prisoners have been known to shed tears over thegrave of their jailer. Then he was her husband, after all, thefather of her children, the only man who existed for her. Fortwenty-six years they had never been separated: they had sat at thesame table: they had slept side by side.

Yes, she would have wept over him. But how much less poignant wouldher grief have been than at this moment, when it was complicated byall the torments of uncertainty, and by the most frightfulapprehensions!

Fearing lest she might take cold, her children had removed her tothe sofa, and there, all shivering,"Isn't it horrible," she said, "not to know any thing of your father?

- to think that at this very moment, perhaps, pursued by the police,he is wandering in despair through the streets, without daring toask anywhere for shelter."Her children had no time to answer and comfort her; for at thismoment the door-be11 rang again.

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"Who can it be now?" said Mme. Favoral with a start.

This time there was no discussion in the hall. Steps sounded on thefloor of the dining-room; the door opened; and M. Desclavettes, theold bronze-merchant, walked, or rather slipped into the parlor.