"Well, my good man," said the father, "you have a cold, then?"
The old man, with his eyes to the wall, did not turn his head. And a heavy silence fell once more.
"They ought to make you a little gruel," added the mother.
He preserved his mute stiffness.
"I say, papa," murmured Cécile, "they certainly told us he was an invalid; only we did not think of it afterwards—"
She interrupted herself, much embarrassed. After having placed on the table a pot-au-feu and two bottles of wine, she undid the second parcel and drew from it a pair of enormous boots. It was the present intended for the grandfather, and she held one boot in each hand, in confusion, contemplating the poor man's swollen feet, which would never walk again.
"Eh! they come a little late, don't they, my worthy fellow?" said M. Grégoire again, to enliven the situation. "It doesn't matter, they're always useful."
Bonnemort neither heard nor replied, with his terrible face as cold and as hard as a stone.
Then Cécile furtively placed the boots against the wall. But in spite of her precautions the nails clanked; and those enormous boots stood oppressively in the room.
"He won't say thank you," said the Levaque woman, who had cast a look of deep envy on the boots. "Might as well give a pair of spectacles to a duck, asking your pardon."