Jean nodded assent, while the two girls were wrapping their shawls round their heads.
Buteau had got up and was pacing to and fro in the cow-house, grim, restless, and pre-occupied. Since the reading he had been silent, as if engrossed by the book's tales about the laboriously acquired land. Why not have the whole? A division had become intolerable to him. And there were other things besides confusedly jostling each other within his thick skull: wrath, pride, a dogged resolve to keep to his word, the exasperated craving of the man who would like, and yet will not, for fear of being taken advantage of. However, he abruptly came to a decision.
"I am going up to bed. Good-bye!" he said.
"How good-bye?"
"I shall start for La Chamade before daybreak. Good-bye, in case I don't see you again."
His father and mother, shoulder to shoulder, had planted themselves in front of him.
"Well, and your share?" said Fouan. "Do you accept it?"
Buteau walked as far as the door, then, turning round:
"No!" he replied.
The old peasant trembled in every limb. He drew himself up to his full height, and his ancient authority flashed forth for the last time.