They are wicked, heartless women; curses on them, I loathe them. I
shall rise at night from my grave to curse them again; for, after all,
my friends, have I done wrong? They are behaving very badly to me, eh?
. . . What am I saying? Did you not tell me just now that Delphine is
in the room? She is more tender-hearted than her sister. . . . Eugene,
you are my son, you know. You will love her; be a father to her! Her
sister is very unhappy. And there are their fortunes! Ah, God! I am
dying, this anguish is almost more than I can bear! Cut off my head;
leave me nothing but my heart."
"Christophe!" shouted Eugene, alarmed by the way in which the old man
moaned, and by his cries, "go for M. Bianchon, and send a cab here for
me.--I am going to fetch them, dear father; I will bring them back to
you."
"Make them come! Compel them to come! Call out the Guard, the
military, anything and everything, but make them come!" He looked at
Eugene, and a last gleam of intelligence shone in his eyes. "Go to the
authorities, to the Public Prosecutor, let them bring them here; come
they shall!"
"But you have cursed them."
"Who said that!" said the old man in dull amazement.
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