"Well?"
asked Madame Ferailleur, as she realized his identity.
"I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for."
"Where?"
"Ah!--a long way off, my poor mother--many a league from those we
have known and loved--in a thinly populated part of the suburbs,
on the Route de la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and
almost at the point where it intersects the Asnieres road. You
will not be very comfortable there, but you will have the pleasure
of a little garden."
She rose, summoning all her energy. "What does it matter where or
what our abode is?" she interrupted, with forced gayety. "I am
confident that we shall not remain there long."
But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he
remained silent and dejected; and as his mother observed him
closely, she fancied by the expression of his eyes, that some new
anxiety had been added to all his other troubles.
"What is the matter?" she inquired, unable to master her alarm--
"what has happened?"
"Ah! a great misfortune!"
"My God! still another?"
"I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to Madame
Leon."
"What did she say?"
"The Count de Chalusse died this morning."
Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved. She
was certainly expecting to hear something very different, and she
did not understand why this death should be a great misfortune to
them personally. One point, however, she did realize, that it was
imprudent, and even dangerous, to carry on this conversation in a
hall where a hundred persons were passing and repassing every
minute.
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