Macqueron, rendered uneasy by the assumed indifference of the schoolmaster, finished by asking him:
"And you, Monsieur Lequeu, what do you say?"
Lequeu, who was warming his slender, sallow hands against the stove-pipe, smiled the bitter smile of a superior person who is compelled by his position to remain silent.
"I say nothing," he answered. "It's none of my business."
Macqueron soused his face in a basin of water, and while spluttering and wiping himself dry, replied:
"Well, mark my words! I mean to do something. If the road's voted, by God, I'll let 'em have my ground for nothing."
This declaration stupefied the audience. Even Hyacinthe and Bécu looked up, despite their intoxication. There was a pause. They gazed at Macqueron as if he had suddenly gone mad; and he, spurred on by the effect produced, yet with his hands trembling at the engagement he was taking, added:
"There'll be something like half an acre. The man who goes back on his word is a scoundrel! I've sworn it!"
Lengaigne departed with his son Victor, exasperated and disgusted by his neighbour's munificence. Land didn't cost him much, the way he robbed people.
Macqueron, despite the cold, now took his gun, and went out to see if he could come across a rabbit he had noticed in his vineyard the day before. In the tavern there only remained Lequeu—who spent his Sundays there without taking anything to drink—and the two gamblers, who were poring over their cards. Hours elapsed, while other peasants came and went.