And by a
singular counter-effect all the things that he had never owned to himself
he now found in his child's eyes--he beheld them, read them there,
against his will. The story of his cupidity lay unfolded before him, his
anger at having such a sorry son, his anguish at the idea that Madame
Chaise's fortune depended upon such a fragile existence, his eager desire
that she might make haste and die whilst the youngster was still there,
in order that he might finger the legacy. It was simply a question of
days, this duel as to which should go off first. And then, at the end, it
still meant death--the youngster must in his turn disappear, whilst he,
the father, alone pocketed the cash, and lived joyfully to a good old
age. And these frightful things shone forth so clearly from the keen,
melancholy, smiling eyes of the poor condemned child, passed from son to
father with such evident distinctness, that for a moment it seemed to
them that they were shouting them aloud.
However, M. Vigneron struggled against it all, and, averting his head,
began energetically protesting: "How! You'll be dead? What an idea! It's
absurd to have such ideas as that!"
Meantime, Madame Vigneron was sobbing. "You wicked child," she gasped;
"how can you make us so unhappy, when we already have such a cruel loss
to deplore?"
Gustave had to kiss them, and to promise them that he would live for
their sakes. Yet he did not cease smiling, conscious as he was that a lie
is necessary when one does not wish to be too miserable, and quite
prepared, moreover, to leave his parents happy behind him, since even the
Blessed Virgin herself was powerless to grant him in this world the
little happy lot to which each creature should be born.
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