fancied he could detect that Madame Chaise was sulking with her nephew.
"Gustave," he suddenly inquired, "have you asked your aunt's
forgiveness?" The lad, quite astonished, began staring at his father with
his large clear eyes. "Yes," added M. Vigneron, "you behaved very badly,
you pushed her back just now when she wanted to help you to sit up."

Madame Chaise said nothing, but waited with a dignified air, whilst
Gustave, who, without any show of appetite, was finishing the /noix/ of
his cutlet, which had been cut into small pieces, remained with his eyes
lowered on his plate, this time obstinately refusing to make the sorry
show of affection which was demanded of him.

"Come, Gustave," resumed his father, "be a good boy. You know how kind
your aunt is, and all that she intends to do for you."

But no, he would not yield. At that moment, indeed, he really hated that
woman, who did not die quickly enough, who polluted the affection of his
parents, to such a point that when he saw them surround him with
attentions he no longer knew whether it were himself or the inheritance
which his life represented that they wished to save. However, Madame
Vigneron, so dignified in her demeanour, came to her husband's help. "You
really grieve me, Gustave," said she; "ask your aunt's forgiveness, or
you will make me quite angry with you."

Thereupon he gave way. What was the use of resisting? Was it not better
that his parents should obtain that money? Would he not himself die later
on, so as to suit the family convenience? He was aware of all that; he
understood everything, even when not a word was spoken. So keen was the
sense of hearing with which suffering had endowed him, that he even heard
the others' thoughts.