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Hautot returned: "It has done for me! My stomach is split! I know it well." Then, all of a sudden: "I want to talk to the son, if I have the time." Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating like a little boy. "P'pa, p'pa, poor p'ps!" But the father, in a firmer tone: "Come! stop crying this is not the time for it. I have to talk to you. Sit down there quite close to me.
"Which direction are we to begin at?" asked the notary, a jolly notary fat and pale, big paunched too, and strapped up in an entirely new hunting-costume bought at Rouen. "Well, that way, through these grounds. We will drive the partridges into the plain, and we will beat there again." And Hautot Senior rose up.
It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him, the shooting opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his father to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living.
Suddenly the shot went off. Hautot Senior had fired. They all stopped, and saw a partridge breaking off from a covey which was rushing along at a single flight to fall down into a ravine under a thick growth of brushwood.
She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where the dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, and asked César a thousand questions about his father with reference to matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel without reasoning on the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her frail woman's heart.
In the spacious dining-room kitchen, Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior, M. Bermont, the tax-collector, and M. Mondaru, the notary were taking a pick and drinking a glass before going out to shoot, for it was the opening day. Hautot Senior, proud of all his possessions, talked boastfully beforehand of the game which his guests were going to find on his lands.
And then the notion of this brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plagued him, annoyed him a little, and, at the same time, exhibited him. He had, as it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance, who would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take or leave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father.
"Yes, father." "That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm sure. Tell them they may come in." Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, carrying the holy oils.
And he took his departure, after he had again kissed little Emile, and pressed Mademoiselle Donet's hand. The week appeared long to César Hautot. He had never before found himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable.
When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued: "Now we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes." "Listen: I am well off he has left me plenty of means. I don't want you to have anything to complain about " But she quickly interrupted him. "Oh, Monsieur César, Monsieur César, not to-day. I am cut to the heart another time another day. No, not to-day.
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