“And this, young man, is another way,” said Georges, imitating Schinner, but swallowing the smoke so that none returned.
“And my parents fancy that I am educated,” thought poor Oscar, trying to smoke with a grace. But he felt so mortally sick that he allowed Mistigris to bone his cigar and to say, as he puffed at it with conspicuous satisfaction:
“I suppose you have nothing catching.”
But Oscar wished he were only strong enough to hit Mistigris.
“Why,” said he, pointing to Colonel Georges, “eight francs for Alicante and cheesecakes, forty sous in cigars, and his breakfast, which will cost—”
“Ten francs at least,” said Mistigris. “But so it is, little dishes make long bills.”
“Well, Père Léger, we can crack a bottle of Bordeaux apiece?” said Georges to the farmer.
“His breakfast will cost him twenty francs,” cried Oscar. “Why, that comes to more than thirty francs!”
Crushed by the sense of his inferiority, Oscar sat down on the cornerstone lost in a reverie, which hindered his observing that his trousers, hitched up as he sat, showed the line of union between an old stocking-leg and a new foot to it, a masterpiece of his mother’s skill.
“Our understandings are twins, if not our souls,” said Mistigris, pulling one leg of his trousers a little way up to show a similar effect. “But a baker’s children are always worst bread.”
The jest made Monsieur de Sérizy smile as he stood with folded arms under the gateway behind the two lads. Heedless as they were, the solemn statesman envied them their faults; he liked their bounce, and admired the quickness of their fun.
“Well, can you get les Moulineaux? for you went to Paris to fetch the money,” said the innkeeper to old Léger, having just shown him a nag for sale in his stables. “It will be a fine joke to screw a bit out of the Comte de Sérizy, a peer of France and a State Minister.”
The wily old courtier betrayed nothing in his face, but he looked round to watch the farmer.
“His goose is cooked!” replied Léger in a low voice.
“So much the better; I love to see your bigwigs done.—And if you want a score or so thousand francs, I will lend you the money. But François, the driver of Touchards’ six o’clock coach, told me as he went through that Monsieur Margueron is invited to dine with the Comte de Sérizy himself today at Presles.”
“That is His Excellency’s plan, but we have our little notions too,” replied the farmer.
“Ah, but the Count will find a place for Monsieur Margueron’s son, and you have no places to give away,” said the innkeeper.
“No, but if the Count has the Ministers on his side, I have King Louis XVIII on mine,” said Léger in the innkeeper’s ear, “and forty thousand of his effigies handed over to Master Moreau will enable me to buy les Moulineaux for two hundred and sixty thousand francs before Monsieur de Sérizy can step in, and he will be glad enough to take it off my hands for three hundred and sixty thousand rather than have the lands valued lot by lot.”
“Not a bad turn, master,” said his friend.
“How is that for a stroke of business?” said the farmer.
“And, after all, the farm lands are worth it to him,” said the innkeeper.
“Les Moulineaux pays six thousand francs a year in kind, and I mean to renew the lease at seven thousand five hundred for eighteen years. So as he invests at more than two and a half percent, Monsieur le Comte won’t be robbed.
“Not to commit Monsieur Moreau, I am to be proposed to the Count by him as a tenant; he will seem to be taking care of his master’s interests by finding him nearly three percent for his money and a farmer who will pay regularly—”
“And what will Moreau get out of the job altogether?”
“Well, if the Count makes him a present of ten thousand francs, he will clear fifty thousand on the transaction; but he will have earned them fairly.”
“And, after all, what does the Count care for Presles? He is so rich,” said the innkeeper. “I have never set eyes on him myself.”
“Nor I neither,” said the farmer. “But he is coming at last to live there; he would not otherwise be laying out two hundred thousand francs on redecorating the rooms. It is as fine as the King’s palace.”
“Well, then,” replied the other, “it is high time that Moreau should feather his nest.”
“Yes, yes; for when once the Master and Mis’ess are on the spot, they will not keep their eyes in their pockets.”
Though the conversation was carried on in a low tone, the Count had kept his ears open.
“Here I have all the evidence I was going in search of,” thought he, looking at the burly farmer as he went back into the kitchen. “But perhaps it is no more than a scheme as yet. Perhaps Moreau has not closed with the offer—!” So averse was he to believe that the land-steward was capable of mixing himself up in such a plot.
Pierrotin now came out to give his horses water. The Count supposed that the driver would breakfast with the innkeeper and Léger, and what he had overheard made him fear the least betrayal.
“The whole posse are in league,” thought he; “it serves them right to thwart their scheming.—Pierrotin,” said he in a low voice as he went up to the driver, “I promised you ten louis to keep my secret; but if you will take care not to let out my name—and I shall know whether you have mentioned it, or given the least clue to it, to any living soul, even at l’Isle-Adam—tomorrow morning, as you pass the château, I will give you the thousand francs to pay for your new coach.—And for greater safety,” added he, slapping Pierrotin’s back, “do without your breakfast; stay outside with your horses.”
Pierrotin had turned pale with joy.
“I understand, Monsieur le Comte, trust me. It
