“What is it, master?” whispered Clotilde, trembling.
“No, no, nothing!” murmured the doctor. “I will tell you later.”
Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an idea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves out to come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turned to Maxime and Charles.
“Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he is pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?”
Félicité hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn which affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away.
“He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you have brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have been able to do at Plassans, eh?”
“No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think about it.”
He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added:
“You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I will think of it, I will write to you.”
Then, taking out his watch, he cried: