"Now we're right. I told you the deed was ready. I called yesterday at Monsieur Baillehache's, and he showed it me. Only the numbers of the lots are left blank after your names. So we will draw, and the notary need then only write in the lots and you can sign on Saturday at his place."
He roused himself and raised his voice: "Come, I will get the tickets ready."
Fouan's children abruptly approached, making no secret of their distrust. They watched Grosbois, and kept a sharp eye on his slightest movements, as on those of a conjuror capable of juggling away the shares. First he had cut the sheet of paper into three with his drink-sodden, shaking fingers; now he was writing the figures 1, 2, 3, and enormous, strongly-marked figures they were. The others watched his pen over his shoulders, the parents themselves nodding their satisfaction on seeing the impossibility of deception. The tickets were slowly folded up and thrown into the hat. A solemn stillness reigned.
At the expiration of two long minutes Grosbois exclaimed:
"Well, you must make up your minds. Who begins?"
No one stirred. The night deepened, and the hat seemed to grow larger in the gloom.
"By order of seniority, eh?" proposed the surveyor. "You begin, Hyacinthe, you're the eldest."
Hyacinthe, the amiable, came forward, but he lost his balance, and all but fell sprawling. He had violently shoved his fist into the hat as though with the purpose of extracting a mass of rock from it. When he had secured one of the tickets, he had to go to the window to see.
"Two!" cried he, evidently finding something exceedingly humorous in the figure, for he choked with laughter.