"Not a penny more," repeated the hard-headed Batiste.
"Monote ... come back. That's enough."
And feigning indignation, the gipsy turned his back on the purchaser, intimating thereby that all the bargaining was off, but on seeing that Batiste was really leaving, his seriousness disappeared.
"Come, sir.... What's your name?... Ah! Well, look, Mr. Batiste, so that you can see that I like you and want you to own this treasure, I'm going to do for you what I wouldn't do for any one else. Do you agree to thirty-five dollars? Come now, say yes. I swear to you on your life that I wouldn't do as much for my own father."
This time his protestations, on seeing that the farmer was not moved by the reduction and offered him a beggarly two dollars more, were even livelier and more gesticulatory than before. Why, did that jewel of a horse inspire him with no more liking than that? But man alive, hadn't he eyes in his head to see his value? Come, Monote; take him out again.
But Monote didn't have to tire himself out again, for Batiste departed, pretending that he had given up the purchase.
He wandered through the market looking at other horses from afar, but always gazing out of the tail of his eye at the gipsy, who similarly feigning indifference, was following and watching him.
He approached a big, strong, sleek horse which he did not think of buying, divining his high price. He had scarcely passed his hand over the haunches when he felt a warm breath on his face, and heard the gipsy's voice murmuring:—
"Thirty-three.... On your children's lives, don't say no; you see I'm reasonable."
"Twenty-eight," said Batiste, without turning around.