The corners tightened around Madame’s mouth. Lavilette scratched his head, so that the hair stood up like flying tassels of corn. The land in question lay next a portion of Farcinelle’s own farm, with a river frontage. On it was a little house and shed, and no better garden-stuff grew in the parish than on this same five acres.
“But I do not own the land,” said Lavilette. “You’ve got a mortgage on it,” answered Farcinelle. “Foreclose it.”
“Suppose I did foreclose; you couldn’t put the land in the marriage contract until it was mine.”
The notary shrugged his shoulder ironically, and dropped his chin in his hand as he furtively eyed the two men. Farcinelle was ready for the emergency. He turned to Shangois.
“I’ve got everything ready for the foreclosure,” said he. “Couldn’t it be done to-night, Shangois?”
“Hardly to-night. You might foreclose, but the property couldn’t be Monsieur Lavilette’s until it is duly sold under the mortgage.”
“Here, I’ll tell you what can be done,” said Farcinelle. “You can put the mortgage in the contract as her dot, and, name of a little man! I’ll foreclose it, I can tell you. Come, now, Lavilette, is it a bargain?” Shangois sat back in his chair, the fingers of both hands drumming on the table before him, his head twisted a little to one side. His little reflective eyes sparkled with malicious interest, and his little voice said, as though he were speaking to himself:
“Excuse, but the land belongs to the young Vanne Castine—eh?”
“That’s it,” exclaimed Farcinelle.
“Well, why not give the poor vaurien a chance to take up the mortgage?”