bitter, arose about the manner of proceedings. At the end of half-an-hour, a noise of confused voices, amongst which Zélie’s shrill voice could be distinguished, resounded in the courtyard and reached the road.
“He must be dead,” then said the busybodies collected in the road.
This uproar reached the ears of the doctor, who heard these words:
“But the house, the house is worth thirty thousand francs! I take it, I do, at thirty thousand francs!” cried or rather bellowed by Crémière.
“Well, we will pay what it is worth,” sharply replied Zélie.
“Monsieur le Curé,” said the old man to the Abbé Chaperon, who stayed beside his friend after having administered to him, “arrange it so that I can die in peace. My heirs, like those of Cardinal Ximénès, are capable of pillaging my house before my death, and I have no monkey to set me up again. Go and tell them that I do not wish anyone to remain in the house.”
The curé and the doctor went down, repeated the dying man’s order, and in a fit of indignation, added strong words full of rebuke.
“Madame Bougival,” said the doctor, “shut the gate and do not let anyone in; it seems that it is impossible to die in peace. You will prepare poultices of ground mustard, in order to apply them to monsieur’s feet.”
“Your uncle is not dead, and may yet live a long
