“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do
to-morrow.”
The following day, at about nine o'clock in the morning, the postman
gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M.
Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the
afternoon. He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of
them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the
money.
Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy
that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.
Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.
He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened.
Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a
candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face
contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a
ghost.
M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was
going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the
light and rushed for the bed. His master stretched out his hands to
receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying
to seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in
order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.
He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead
and the third time in the chest. He fought wildly, waving his arms
around in the darkness, kicking and crying:
“Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!”
But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always
striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a
punch, and rushing forward again furiously.
M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the
stomach. But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began
to shriek:
“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”
The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored
breathing in the darkness.