At length they became silent, and La Grande, who had not unclosed her lips, looked from one to the other with her round, evil, bird-of-prey-like eyes.
"Serve you right!" said she.
Just at that moment, however, Buteau came in. Palmyre, having finished her work, took advantage of the opening of the door to slip out and make her escape, with the fifteen sous which Rose had just put into her hand. Buteau stood motionless in the middle of the room, maintaining the prudent silence of the peasant, who will never be the first to speak. A couple of minutes elapsed, and then the father was forced to open the discussion.
"So you've made up your mind. That's fortunate. We've had plenty of time to wait for you during these last ten days."
The son swayed carelessly from side to side, and eventually said: "One can't do more than one can. Every one knows how his bread bakes."
"Possibly. But if things were to go on at that rate, you'd be eating your bread while we starved. You signed, and you ought to pay up on the right day."
Seeing his father's ill-humour, Buteau began to laugh.
"If I'm too late, you know, I can go back. It's not so nice to have to pay as it is. Some don't pay at all."
This allusion to Hyacinthe disquieted Rose, who, not daring to interfere, confined herself to twitching her husband's jacket. He had made a gesture of anger, but checked himself.
"Good. Hand over your fifty francs. I've drawn out the receipt."