“Yes, monsieur,” she replied. “We have a little model farm, like the government itself; we call it our country house; it is twelve miles from here, on the road to Italy, near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.”
“It is a property that belongs to us all, and is to go to the survivor,” said the goodman Alain.
“Oh, it is not very considerable!” added Madame de la Chanterie, rather hastily, as if she feared that Godefroid might think these remarks a bait.
“There are thirty acres of tilled land,” said one of the two personages still unknown to Godefroid, “six of meadow, and an enclosure containing four acres, in which our house, which adjoins the farmhouse, stands.”
“But such a property as that,” said Godefroid, “must be worth a hundred thousand francs.”
“Oh, we don’t get anything out of it but our provisions!” said the same personage.
He was a tall, grave, spare man, with all the appearance of having served in the army. His white hair showed him to be past sixty, and his face betrayed some violent grief controlled by religion.
The second unnamed person, who seemed to be something between a master of rhetoric and a business agent, was of ordinary height, plump, but active withal. His face had the jovial expression which characterizes those of lawyers and notaries in Paris.
The dress of these four personages revealed a neatness due to the most scrupulous personal care. The same hand, and it was that of Manon, could be seen in every detail. Their coats were perhaps ten years old, but they were preserved, like the coats of vicars, by the occult power of the servant-woman, and the constant care with which they were worn. These men seemed to wear on their backs the livery of a system of life; they belonged to one thought, their looks said the same word, their faces breathed a gentle resignation, a provoking quietude.
“Is it an indiscretion, madame,” said Godefroid, “to ask the names of these gentlemen? I am ready to explain my life; can I know as much of theirs as custom will allow?”