"It is very fine weather, very warm," said Grandet, drawing a long
breath.
"Yes, uncle; but why--"
"Well, my lad," answered his uncle, "I have some bad news to give you.
Your father is ill--"
"Then why am I here?" said Charles. "Nanon," he cried, "order
post-horses! I can get a carriage somewhere?" he added, turning to
his uncle, who stood motionless.
"Horses and carriages are useless," answered Grandet, looking at
Charles, who remained silent, his eyes growing fixed. "Yes, my poor
boy, you guess the truth,--he is dead. But that's nothing; there is
something worse: he blew out his brains."
"My father!"
"Yes, but that's not the worst; the newspapers are all talking about
it. Here, read that."
Grandet, who had borrowed the fatal article from Cruchot, thrust the
paper under his nephew's eyes. The poor young man, still a child,
still at an age when feelings wear no mask, burst into tears.
"That's good!" thought Grandet; "his eyes frightened me. He'll be all
right if he weeps,--That is not the worst, my poor nephew," he said
aloud, not noticing whether Charles heard him, "that is nothing; you
will get over it: but--"
"Never, never! My father! Oh, my father!"
"He has ruined you, you haven't a penny."
"What does that matter? My father! Where is my father?"
His sobs resounded horribly against those dreary walls and
reverberated in the echoes. The three women, filled with pity, wept
also; for tears are often as contagious as laughter.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107