"And me," he cried, "what are you going to do with me?"
In his look was a concentrated reproach, all pent-up suffering and wrath of years.
"So I, the eldest, the rightful heir, am only to bear my suffering and submit to the will of others?"
"My son," replied his father gently, "you will continue to live with us as now; you will do what you can, and no one will expect more. No work will be undertaken here without your having first been consulted, that I promise you. The farmstead will be your home after my death as now."
"No. I will not be ordered about by a man who does not bear my name. A Lumineau, and a Lumineau only, must be master here!"
"It is the sorrow of my life, Mathurin, that this cannot be."
"I could have borne with François, even with André," continued the cripple, with equal vehemence, "but Rousille and her Boquin shall never be the masters here. It is my home, and, I tell you, it is my turn!"
"But, my poor boy, you cannot take the management."
The serge curtains shook, and the unhappy man, suffocating with rage, made a few uncertain steps forward.
"I cannot tell what is good ploughing?" he gasped.