The concierge continued: "And as I was saying, a lot in the cemetery, which you told me to get, ain't given away. It's no use for you to have a kind heart, mademoiselle, you ain't any too rich,—everyone knows that,—and I says to myself: 'Mademoiselle's going to have no small amount to pay out, and I know mademoiselle, she'll pay.' So it'll do no harm to economize on that, eh? It'll be just so much saved. The other'll be just as safe under ground. And then, what will give her the most pleasure up yonder? Why, to know that she isn't making things hard for anybody, the excellent girl."
"Pay? What?" said mademoiselle, out of patience with the concierge's circumlocution.
"Oh! that's of no account," he replied; "she was very fond of you, all the same. And then, when she was very sick, it wasn't the time. Oh! Mon Dieu, you needn't put yourself out—there's no hurry about it—it's money she owed a long while. See, this is it."
He took a stamped paper from the inside pocket of his coat.
"I didn't want her to make a note,—she insisted."
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil seized the stamped paper and saw at the foot:
"I acknowledge the receipt of the above amount.
Germinie Lacerteux."
It was a promise to pay three hundred francs in monthly installments, which were to be endorsed on the back.
"There's nothing there, you see," said the concierge, turning the paper over.