Part 25 (1/2)
”I've heard Madame Katte, her nurse, who also does the cooking, call her so a thousand times, monsieur; though, generally, neither Monsieur Bruneau, the valet, nor Madame Katte say much. It's like talking to the wall to try and get any information out of them. We have been porters here these twenty years and we've never found out anything about Monsieur du Portail yet. More than that, monsieur, he owns the little house alongside; you see the double door from here. Well, he can go out that way and receive his company too, and we know nothing about it. Our owner doesn't know anything more than we do; when people ring at that door, Monsieur Bruneau goes and opens it.”
”Then you didn't see the gentleman who is talking with him in the garden go by this way?”
”Bless me! no, that I didn't!”
”Ah!” thought Cerizet as he got into the cabriolet, ”she must be the daughter of that uncle of Theodose. I wonder if du Portail can be the secret benefactor who sent money from time to time to that rascal?
Suppose I send an anonymous letter to the old fellow, warning him of the danger the barrister runs from those notes for twenty-five thousand francs?”
An hour later the cot-bed had arrived for Madame Cardinal, to whom the inquisitive portress offered her services to bring her something to eat.
”Do you want to see the rector?” Madame Cardinal inquired of her uncle.
She had noticed that the arrival of the bed seemed to draw him from his somnolence.
”I want wine!” replied the pauper.
”How do you feel now, Pere Toupillier?” asked Madame Perrache, in a coaxing voice.
”I tell you I want wine,” repeated the old man, with an energetic insistence scarcely to be expected of his feebleness.
”We must first find out if it is good for you, uncle,” said Madame Cardinal, soothingly. ”Wait till the doctor comes.”
”Doctor! I won't have a doctor!” cried Toupillier; ”and you, what are you doing here? I don't want anybody.”
”My good uncle, I came to know if you'd like something tasty. I've got some nice fresh soles--hey! a bit of fried sole, with a squeeze of lemon on it?”
”Your fish, indeed!” cried Toupillier; ”all rotten! That last you brought me, more than six weeks ago, it is there in the cupboard; you can take it away with you.”
”Heavens! how ungrateful sick men are!” whispered the widow Cardinal to Perrache.
Nevertheless, to exhibit solicitude, she arranged the pillow under the patient's head, saying:--
”There! uncle, don't you feel better like that?”
”Let me alone!” shouted Toupillier, angrily; ”I want no one here; I want wine; leave me in peace.”
”Don't get angry, little uncle; we'll fetch you some wine.”
”Number six wine, rue des Canettes,” cried the pauper.
”Yes, I know,” replied Madame Cardinal; ”but let me count out my coppers. I want to get something better for you than that kind of wine; for, don't you see, an uncle, he's a kind of father, and one shouldn't mind what one does for him.”
So saying, she sat down, with her legs apart, on one of the dilapidated chairs, and poured into her ap.r.o.n the contents of her pockets, namely: a knife, her snuff-box, two p.a.w.n-tickets, some crusts of bread, and a handful of copper, from which she extracted a few silver bits.
This exhibition, intended to prove her generous and eager devotion, had no result. Toupillier seemed not to notice it. Exhausted by the feverish energy with which he had demanded his favorite remedy, he made an effort to change his position, and, with his back turned to his two nurses, he again muttered: ”Wine! wine!” after which nothing more was heard of him but a stentorous breathing, that plainly showed the state of his lungs, which were beginning to congest.
”I suppose I must go and fetch his wine!” said the Cardinal, restoring to her pockets, with some ill-humor, the cargo she had just pulled out of them.
”If you don't want to go--” began Madame Perrache, always ready to offer her services.