"How much money? Does God ask for money, now, to save me from hell? Why, then, did he not give me money to give him?"
"Hush—wretched man——! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?"
"Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit, Monsieur le curé, you shall have your share."
"You will have masses said?"
"No, I have not enough for that."
"But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say——"
"Impossible, Monsieur le curé, it is impossible."
"You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen."
"I wish you a good day, Monsieur le curé."
When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he going to do?