The gleam of gratitude which had been shining in the eyes of father Pantois faded out. He was embarrassed, troubled; he stopped eating.
"You see," said he, timidly,—"well, in short, if you could pay it to-night, that would oblige me greatly, Monsieur Lanlaire. Twenty-two francs, that's all; pray excuse me."
"You are joking, father Pantois," replied Monsieur, with superb assurance; "certainly; I will pay you that directly. I proposed that only for the purpose of making a little trip and paying you a little visit."
He fumbled in the pockets of his pantaloons, then in those of his vest and waistcoat, and, assuming an air of surprise, he cried:
"Well, there! here I am again without change! I have nothing but confounded thousand-franc bills."
With a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked:
"I will bet that you have not change for a thousand francs, father Pantois?"
Seeing Monsieur laugh, father Pantois thought that it was proper for him to laugh too, and he answered, jovially:
"Ha! ha! ha! I have never even seen these confounded bills."
"Well, on Sunday then," concluded Monsieur.