A short time after the sale on execution, the result of which was so favorable to the Guillot family, an exciting piece of news gained currency in the little village of Chelles, and set the tongues of all the gossips of the locality in motion once more. For, you know, the smaller a place is, the more pleasure the people take in meddling with other people’s business.
It was the former dealer in wines, the facetious Luminot, who appeared at Madame Droguet’s one morning, crying:
“Have you heard the news—the great news?”
“Dear me! no, we haven’t heard anything; how do you expect me to hear anything, with Monsieur Droguet thinking of nothing but his horrid Lancers quadrille, which he will never learn.—Tell me, Monsieur Luminot, what is it about?”
“You know that delightful estate, located in the pleasantest spot in the whole neighborhood—that lovely villa which was built for a former artiste from the Vaudeville, who sold it to a Parisian confectioner, who became insolvent?”
“The Goldfish Villa, you mean? so called because there’s a pond full of them there.”
“I didn’t know that; that’s an additional advantage of the property.”
“Well, what about the house?”
“It was sold a few days ago—to some very distinguished people, so it seems, and necessarily very rich, for nobody else could indulge in such a country house.”
“Mon Dieu! it’s no château; I believe they wanted sixty thousand francs for it; they probably sold it for fifty.”