"Sweet-briers, Monsieur Lanlaire?
Well, this year, taking them as they come, sweet-briers are worth twenty-two francs a hundred.
It is a little dear, I know; but I cannot get them for less; really I cannot."
Like a generous man, who despises considerations of money, Monsieur interrupted the old man, who was getting ready to justify himself by explanations.
"It is all right, father Pantois. It is agreed.
Do I ever haggle with you?
In fact, instead of twenty-two francs, I will pay you twenty-five for your sweet-briers."
"Ah! Monsieur Lanlaire, you are too good!"
"No, no; I am just.
I am for the people, I am; for labor, don't you know?"
And, with a blow on the table, he went higher still.
"No, not twenty-five,—thirty, father Pantois. I will pay you thirty francs, do you hear that?"
The good man lifted his poor eyes to Monsieur, in astonishment and gratitude, and stammered:
"I hear very well.
It is a pleasure to work for you, Monsieur Lanlaire.
You know what work is, you do."
Monsieur put an end to these effusions.
"And I will go to pay you,—let us see; to-day is Tuesday,—I will go to pay you on Sunday.
Does that suit you? And at the same time I will take my gun. Is it agreed?"
The gleam of gratitude which had been shining in the eyes of father Pantois faded out.
He was embarrassed, troubled; he stopped eating.
"You see," said he, timidly,—"well, in short, if you could pay it to-night, that would oblige me greatly, Monsieur Lanlaire.
Twenty-two francs, that's all; pray excuse me."
"You are joking, father Pantois," replied Monsieur, with superb assurance; "certainly; I will pay you that directly.
I proposed that only for the purpose of making a little trip and paying you a little visit."
He fumbled in the pockets of his pantaloons, then in those of his vest and waistcoat, and, assuming an air of surprise, he cried:
"Well, there! here I am again without change!
I have nothing but confounded thousand-franc bills."
With a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked:
"I will bet that you have not change for a thousand francs, father Pantois?"
Seeing Monsieur laugh, father Pantois thought that it was proper for him to laugh too, and he answered, jovially:
"Ha! ha! ha!
I have never even seen these confounded bills."
"Well, on Sunday then," concluded Monsieur.
Monsieur had poured out a glass of cider for himself, and was drinking with father Pantois, when Madame, whom they had not heard coming, suddenly entered the kitchen, like a gust of wind.
Ah! her eye, when she saw that! when she saw Monsieur sitting at table beside the poor old man, and drinking with him!
"What's this?" she exclaimed, her lips all white.
Monsieur stammered, and hemmed and hawed.
"It is some sweet-briers; you know very well, my pet; some sweet-briers. Father Pantois has brought me some sweet-briers. All the rose-bushes were frozen this winter."
"I have ordered no sweet-briers. We need no sweet-briers here."
This was said in a cutting tone.
Then she made a half-circuit of the room, and went out, slamming the door and showering insults.
In her anger she had not noticed me.
Monsieur and the poor old puller of sweet-briers had risen.
Embarrassed, they looked at the door through which Madame had just disappeared.
Then they looked at each other, without daring to say a word.
Monsieur was the first to break this painful silence.
"Well, then, on Sunday, father Pantois."
"On Sunday, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And take good care of yourself, father Pantois."