Then, turning back, he said to Jean:
"You come pat. These two were tearing each other's eyes out. Françoise wants the property divided, so that she may leave us."
"What? That child!" cried Jean, amazed.
His desire had become a violent hidden passion, and the only satisfaction he had was to see her in this house, where he was received as a friend. He would have proposed for her half a score of times already, if he had not so keenly felt the disparity in their ages. It was in vain that he had waited; the fifteen years' difference had not been spanned. In the country, a great difference of age is reckoned such an obstacle, that nobody—not she herself, nor her sister, nor even her brother-in-law—seemed to imagine he could ever fix his thoughts on her. And this was why Buteau received him so cordially, without any fear of the consequences.
"You may well say child!" said he, paternally shrugging his shoulders.
But Françoise, standing rigidly erect, with her eyes on the ground, proved obstinate.
"I want my share."
"It would be the wisest thing," murmured old Fouan.
Then Jean gently took hold of her wrists, and drew her towards him. Holding her thus, his hands quivering at the contact of her flesh, he addressed her in his kind voice, which faltered as he besought her to remain. Where could she go? Into service with some strangers at Cloyes or Châteaudun? Was she not better off in the house where she had grown up, amid people who loved her? She listened to him, and she also softened; for although she scarcely thought of him as a lover, she was wont to obey him readily, chiefly out of regard for him and a little from fear, thinking him a very serious person.
"I want my share," she repeated, beginning to give way, "but I don't say that I shall go away."