"
The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. "Nine and four
are thirteen," she muttered, "and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why
not? I must look into this."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know
this young lady's name?"
"It's Marguerite."
The woman's face clouded. "No; it can't be then," she muttered,
in a scarcely audible voice.
M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this
frightful creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some
idea, some vague suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her
to speak now that she was on her guard? He had not time to
ascertain, for the door suddenly opened, and Vantrasson appeared
on the threshold. He was scarcely sober when he left the shop,
but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble had become a
stagger. "Oh, you wretch, you brigand!" howled his wife; "you've
been drinking again!"
He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her
with the phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied:
"Well, what of that! Can't I have a little pleasure with my
friends? I came across a couple of men who were just taking their
fifteenth glass; why should I refuse a compliment?"
"You can't hold yourself up."
"That's true." And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.
A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson's lips! M.
Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words "thief," "spy,"
and "detective;" but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks
which she alternately gave her husband and himself.
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