trembling like a leaf shaken by the autumn wind.

Brochon here came up, followed by Oscar and Poiret.

"What has happened?" repeated the mother, addressing the stable-man.

"I don't know, but Monsieur Moreau is no longer steward of Presles,
and they say your son has caused it. His Excellency ordered that he
should be sent home to you. Here's a letter from poor Monsieur Moreau,
madame, which will tell you all. You never saw a man so changed in a
single day."

"Clapart, two glasses of wine for the postilion and for monsieur!"
cried the mother, flinging herself into a chair that she might read
the fatal letter. "Oscar," she said, staggering towards her bed, "do
you want to kill your mother? After all the cautions I gave you this
morning--"

She did not end her sentence, for she fainted from distress of mind.
When she came to herself she heard her husband saying to Oscar, as he
shook him by the arm:--

"Will you answer me?"

"Go to bed, monsieur," she said to her son. "Let him alone, Monsieur
Clapart. Don't drive him out of his senses; he is frightfully
changed."

Oscar did not hear his mother's last words; he had slipped away to bed
the instant that he got the order.