"To be sure; one must be reasonable."
"That's it."
"We live while we can, isn't it so, Monsieur Lanlaire?"
"Indeed it is."
And, after a pause, he added in a voice that had become melancholy:
"Besides, everybody has his sorrows, father Pantois."
"No doubt of it."
There was a silence. Marianne was cutting up herbs. It was growing dark in the garden. The two big sunflowers, which could be seen in the perspective of the open door, were losing their color and disappearing in the shade. And father Pantois kept on eating. His glass had remained empty. Monsieur filled it, and then, suddenly abandoning his metaphysical heights, he asked:
"And what are sweet-briers worth this year?"
"Sweet-briers, Monsieur Lanlaire? Well, this year, taking them as they come, sweet-briers are worth twenty-two francs a hundred. It is a little dear, I know; but I cannot get them for less; really I cannot."