"Silence!" he cried; "the matter's done with. I'll smash the next one who says another word about it!"
"And if I choose to speak," demanded Fouan, in a quavering voice, "will you smash me?"
"You as soon as another. I'm quite sick of you!"
Françoise bravely came forward between the two men.
"I beg of you not to interfere, uncle. You have seen that I am able to take care of myself."
The old man, however, pushed her aside.
"Leave me alone. At present you are not concerned. It is my business now. Ah, you would smash me, would you, villain?" he cried, raising his stick. "You had better take care that I don't chastise you!"
But Buteau quickly snatched the old man's stick from him, and tossed it under the dresser. Then, with a wicked look in his leering eyes, he planted himself straight in front of Fouan, and spoke to him cheek-by-jowl.
"Will you just leave me alone, eh? Do you think I mean to tolerate your airs? No, no. Just look at me if you want to know who I am."
Both the men stood silently confronting each other for a moment or two, glaring fiercely, as though they hoped to cow each other by their glance. The son, since the division of the property, had grown stouter and stood more solidly on his legs, and his jaws seemed to project further from his bull-dog-shaped skull, with its narrow, retreating brow; while the father, worn out by his sixty years of toil, had shrunk still further, his stoop increasing slightly day by day. His loins seemed broken, and his body bent forward towards the ground. His huge nose was the only feature which retained its pristine shape and proportions.