Before replying, Toussaint Lumineau followed with his eyes the movements of the unhappy young man, a prey to a species of madness produced by rage and pain, such as was too well known at La Fromentière--since André's departure the paroxysms had become more frequent--and the father was moved to pity. Ignoring the insolence of the question, he said simply: "Your sister will come back later, Mathurin. Where she has gone I have sent her." "I am not to know where she is, then?" cried the cripple still more violently. "Everything is hidden from me here, and she is told all!" At a sign from the farmer the man took out a couple of potatoes with his knife from the saucepan, slipped them into his coat pocket, cut a slice of bread from the loaf on the table, and carrying off his supper, went out into the yard. The father and son were alone. Toussaint Lumineau, standing erect in the firelight, said: "On the contrary, you are going to know all, Mathurin. Your brother François refuses to come home to us." "I thought so." The cripple had drawn back into a dark corner between the two beds, out of the range of the lamplight; there, as though on the watch for the words spoken, he listened; his trembling hands resting on the crutches shook the bed-curtains. "La Fromentière cannot go on as it is now," resumed the farmer. "I have bidden Rousille take a message to the Michelonnes. One or the other of the sisters, whether it be Adelaide or Véronique matters not, is to go to the Bocage to bring back Jean Nesmy." "Ah! you are marrying Rousille?" "Yes, my friend." "To a dismissed farm-servant!" "I am taking him back." "A _Boquin_! A man not of these parts!" "A good worker, Mathurin, and one who always loved our soil." "And he is to live at La Fromentière?" "Of course. I need help. I need a son to stand by me." Mathurin's tawny head was thrust out from darkness. "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.