“Eh!” said the retired oil-dealer, “that’s nothing to do with me; Eugène will see to that. He will get the money advanced by a banker in Paris. You see, I selected an appointment bringing in a good income. Eugène at first made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such posts, to which influential men were usually nominated. I persisted, however, and he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one need not know either Greek or Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur Peirotte, and he will do all the work.”
Félicité listened to him with rapture.
“I guessed, however,” he continued, “what it was that worried our dear son. We’re not much liked here. People know that we have no means, and will make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in a time of crisis. Eugène wished to get me an appointment in another town. However, I objected; I want to remain at Plassans.”
“Yes, yes, we must remain here,” the old woman quickly replied. “We have suffered here, and here we must triumph. Ah! I’ll crush them all, those fine ladies on the Mail, who scornfully eye my woollen dresses! I didn’t think of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all; I thought you wanted to become mayor.”
“Mayor! Nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugène also mentioned the mayoralty to me. I replied: ‘I’ll accept, if you give me an income of fifteen thousand francs.’”
This conversation, in which high figures flew about like rockets, quite excited Félicité. She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last she put on a devout air, and gravely said: “Come, let us reckon it out. How much will you earn?”
“Well,” said Pierre, “the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousand francs.”
“Three thousand,” Félicité counted.
“Then there is so much per cent on the receipts, which at Plassans, may produce the sum of twelve thousand francs.”
“That makes fifteen thousand.”