Buteau leisurely fumbled in his clothes. He had glanced in a vexed way at La Grande, and seemed put out by her presence. She dropped her knitting, and glared at him in expectation of seeing the money produced. The parents, too, had drawn near, and never took their eyes off the young fellow's hand. Under the stare of those three pairs of eyes, he reluctantly drew out his first five-franc piece.
"One," said he, laying it down on the table. Others followed, more and more slowly. He went on counting them aloud, in faltering tones. After producing the fifth he stopped, and had to make an exhaustive search to find another; then he shouted loudly and emphatically:
"And six!"
The Fouans still waited, but nothing more came.
"What, six?" the father said at last. "There ought to be ten. Are you making fun of us? Last quarter, forty francs; and only thirty this time."
Buteau immediately assumed a whining tone. Nothing prospered. Wheat had fallen still lower, the oats were wretched. There was even a swelling on his horse's stomach, and he had had to send twice for Monsieur Patoir. In short, he was ruined, and he didn't know how to make both ends meet.
"That's no concern of mine," repeated the old man furiously. "Hand over the fifty francs, or I'll summons you!"
He grew cooler, however, as it occurred to him to accept the six coins on account; and he spoke of making out a fresh receipt.
"Then you will give me the twenty francs next week? I'll put that on the paper."
Buteau, however, had immediately snatched up the money lying on the table.