“Five hundred francs!” said Auguste at length. “I would sooner shut up the shop.”
“You refuse. Very well, I will run up bills.”
In a sudden violent movement, he seized her by the arms, and pushed her against the wall. Then, without a cry, choking with passion, she ran and opened the window, as though to throw herself out; but she retraced her steps, and pushing him in her turn toward the door, turned him out of the room gasping:
And she noisily pushed the bolt behind his back. For a moment he listened and hesitated. Then he hastened to go down to the warehouse, again seized with terror, as he beheld Saturnin’s eyes gleaming in the shadow, the noise of the short struggle having brought him from the kitchen.
Down-stairs, Octave, who was selling silk handkerchiefs to an old lady, at once noticed his agitated appearance. The assistant looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he feverishly paced up and down before the counters. When the customer had gone, Auguste’s heart quite overflowed. “My dear fellow, she’s going mad,” said he without naming his wife. “She has shut herself in. You ought to oblige me by going up and speaking to her. I fear an accident, on my word of honor, I do!”
The young man pretended to hesitate. It was such a delicate matter! Finally, he agreed to do so out of pure devotion. Up-stairs, he found Saturnin keeping guard before Berthe’s door. On hearing footsteps, the madman uttered a menacing grunt. But when he recognized the assistant, his face brightened.
“Ah! yes, you,” murmured he. “You’re all right. She mustn’t cry. Be nice, say something to her. And you know, stop there. There’s no danger. I’m here. If the servant tries to peep, I’ll settle her.”
And he squatted down on the floor, guarding the door. As he still held one of his brother-in-law’s boots, he commenced to polish it, to pass away the time.
Octave made up his mind to knock. No answer, not a sound.
Then he gave his name. The bolt was at once drawn. And, opening the door slightly, Berthe begged him to enter. Then she closed and bolted it again with a nervous hand.
“I don’t mind you,” said she; “but I won’t have him!”
She paced the room, carried away by passion, going from the bedstead to the window, which still remained open. And she muttered disconnected sentences: he might entertain her parents at dinner, if he liked; yes, he could account to them for her absence, for she would not appear at the table; she would sooner die! Besides, she preferred to go to bed. With her feverish hands, she already began to tear off the quilt, shake up the pillows, and turn down the sheet, forgetful of Octave’s presence to the extent that she was about to unhook her dress. Then she jumped to another idea.