“That would be the worm within the pear,” whispered Zélie to Massin.
“Why did they let him come?” replied the clerk.
“That would suit you very nicely,” cried Désiré to Goupil, “but could you ever keep yourself clean enough to please the old man and his ward?”
“You are not rubbing your stomach with a basket,” said the postmaster who finally grasped Goupil’s idea.
This coarse joke was a prodigious success. The head clerk scrutinized the laughers with such a terrible look, that silence was immediately restored.
“Nowadays,” whispered Zélie to Massin, “notaries think only of their own interests; and suppose Dionis, in order to profit, went over to Ursule’s side?”
“I am sure of him,” replied the clerk, giving his cousin a look out of his malicious little eyes.
He was going to add, “I know enough to ruin him!” but checked himself.
“I am entirely of Dionis’s opinion,” said he, aloud.
“And I also,” cried Zélie, who nevertheless suspected a collusion of interest between the notary and the clerk.
“My wife has voted,” said the postmaster, sucking down a glass of brandy, although his face was already violet-colored from digesting the breakfast and from a remarkable absorption of liquor.
“That’s all right,” said the tax-gatherer.
“Then shall I go after dinner?” rejoined Dionis.
