Then the other merrily produced his first five-franc piece, tossed it in the air, and stuck it in his eye.
"Well, shall we spend it, you gay dog? Come along, my buck! It's my turn now; you've paid often enough."
They went into Lengaigne's, chuckling for joy, and slapping each other affectionately on the back. Lengaigne had had an idea that year. As the owner of the strolling ball-room refused to come and pitch his tent in the village, disgusted at not having cleared his expenses the year before, the innkeeper had daringly made a ball-room of his barn, which adjoined his tavern, with its front door communicating with the road. He had even made another doorway in the party-wall, so that ball-room and tavern communicated. This idea had brought him the custom of the whole village, and his rival, Macqueron, was furious at having his house empty.
"Two quarts at once; one for each of us!" yelled Hyacinthe.
As Flore, bewildered and radiant at sight of the throng of people, was attending to his order, he noticed that his arrival had interrupted Lengaigne, who had been reading a letter aloud, standing amid a group of peasants. On being questioned, the taverner replied, with a deal of dignity that, it was a letter sent by his son Victor from the regiment.
"Ah, indeed, the rascal!" said Bécu, becoming interested. "And what does he say? You must begin it again for us."
So Lengaigne read it over again.
"My Dear Parents,—This is to tell you that we have been here at Lille in Flanders for a month, less seven days. The country's not bad except for the dearness of the wine, for which we have to pay as much as eightpence a quart."
In all the four closely-written pages there was hardly anything else. The same detail recurred with infinite monotony, spun out into lengthened phrases. However, they all expressed surprise each time that the price of the wine was mentioned. So there were parts like that! How horrid! In the last lines of the letter came an attempt at spongeing: a request for twelve francs to replace a lost pair of shoes.
"Ah, the rascal!" repeated the rural constable. "Something like a fellow that, good God."