Old Fouan had sat down on the ground, tired, but rejoicing in the lovely weather and the fine vintage. He was grinning maliciously at the thought that La Grande, whose vines were on the adjoining plot, had come to wish him good-day. She, like the others, had begun to treat him with respect, now that she had learnt that he still had some money of his own. However, she had turned away from him abruptly, having caught sight of her grandson, Hilarion, greedily taking advantage of her absence to stuff himself with grapes. She promptly administered a hiding to him with her stick. The gluttonous pig! he ate more than he put in the basket!
"Ah, that aunt. What a lot of people will be pleased when she's under ground," exclaimed Buteau, as he came and sat down for a moment by his father's side by way of paying court to him. "It's a crying shame that she should abuse the poor innocent in that way, for if he's as strong as a donkey, he's also quite as stupid."
Then he began to fall foul of the Delhommes, whose vines were down below, skirting the road. They had the finest vineyard in the neighbourhood, some seven acres all in one plot, and it took a good half-score hands to get in the crop. The carefully tended vines produced larger bunches than any of the neighbours' vineyards, a fact of which they were so proud that they affected to keep their own party quite distinct from the others, even disdaining to smile at the sudden colics which sent the girls in the adjoining plots scuttling behind the hedges. They were too much afraid of their legs, Buteau hinted, to care to climb up the hill to greet their old father, and so they pretended not to be aware of his presence there. Then he began to abuse Delhomme as a clumsy, cross-grained ass, who put on all sorts of airs, pretending to be industrious and just; and Fanny, too, was a shrew, losing her temper over the merest trifles, and demanding worship as though she were a saint. She remained quite unconscious of all the wrong she did to others!
"The truth is, father," Buteau continued, "that I've always been fond of you, whereas my brother and sister—Ah! I've always regretted that we parted for a mere nothing."
He then began to throw the blame of what had taken place upon Françoise, whose head, he said, had been turned by Jean. However, she had become steady now, he continued. If she showed any nonsense, he would cool her blood by ducking her in the horse-pond.
"Come, now, father, let bye-gones be forgotten. Why shouldn't you come back to us? Will you?"
Old Fouan remained discreetly silent. He had been expecting the offer which his younger son now made; but he was unwilling to give a definite reply either one way or the other, not feeling at all certain as to his best course.
Buteau assured himself that his brother was at the other end of the vineyard, and then resumed:
"It's hardly fit for you to stay with that scamp Hyacinthe. You'll probably be found there murdered one of these days. Now, if you'll come back to me, I'll board and lodge you, and pay you the allowance as well."
The old man raised his eyes in amazement; and as he still remained silent, his son determined to overwhelm him with his lavish offers.