"Oscar spoke ill of the countess, and he told about the count's
diseases."

"Oscar!" cried Madame Moreau. "Ah! my dear, your sin has found you
out. It was well worth while to warm that young serpent in your bosom.
How often I have told you--"

"Enough!" said Moreau, in a strained voice.

At this moment Estelle and her husband discovered Oscar cowering in
his corner. Moreau swooped down on the luckless lad like a hawk on its
prey, took him by the collar of the coat and dragged him to the light
of a window. "Speak! what did you say to monseigneur in that coach?
What demon let loose your tongue, you who keep a doltish silence
whenever I speak to you? What did you do it for?" cried the steward,
with frightful violence.

Too bewildered to weep, Oscar was dumb and motionless as a statue.

"Come with me and beg his Excellency's pardon," said Moreau.

"As if his Excellency cares for a little toad like that!" cried the
furious Estelle.

"Come, I say, to the chateau," repeated Moreau.

Oscar dropped like an inert mass to the ground.

"Come!" cried Moreau, his anger increasing at every instant.