As for me, it takes all my strength just to come into market with my cart. And what's more, you can't take the land with you when your time comes. You have to give it up, give it up. And anyway, we've done enough work, we want to die in peace… Isn't that right, Rose?’

‘That's it, that's God's truth!’ the old woman replied.

Once more silence fell, a long silence. The notary had nearly finished paring his nails. Finally he put his penknife down on the desk and said:

‘Yes, those are sensible reasons, people often have to decide to give their land away… I should add that this represents a saving for a family because taxes on legacies are higher than those on gifts.’

Despite his pretence of indifference, Buteau could not help exclaiming:

‘So that's true, Monsieur Baillehache?’

‘Certainly it is. You stand to gain some hundreds of francs.’

The other stirred and even Delhomme's face lit up, while their mother and father joined in their satisfaction. Everything was all right; now that money would be saved, the deal could go through.

‘All that remains is for me to make the usual comments,’ the notary went on. ‘Many right-thinking people condemn this way of disposing of property as being immoral because they feel that it destroys the bonds of the family. Indeed, it would be possible to cite most unfortunate situations; children sometimes behave very badly once their parents have divested themselves of their property.’

The two sons and the daughter were listening open-mouthed, blinking their eyes, their cheeks quivering with emotion.

‘Then Father can keep the lot if he thinks like that about it,’ Fanny snapped touchily.

‘We've always done our duty,’ said Buteau.

‘And we're not afraid of hard work,’ added Jesus Christ.

Maître Baillehache silenced them with a gesture.

‘Do let me finish! I know that you're good children and decent workers, and that with you there's certainly no danger that your parents may live to regret what they have done!’

There was no irony in his remark; he was merely repeating the kindly formula that twenty years' exercise of his profession had brought smoothly to his lips. But even though she did not seem to have understood, their mother was looking from her daughter to her sons through her half-closed eyes. She had shown no tenderness to any of the three in their upbringing, treating them with the cold indifference of a housewife who blames her young ones for consuming so much of what she herself was scrimping to save. She bore a grudge against the youngest because he had left home just when he was beginning to earn; she had never been able to see eye to eye with her daughter, irked at having to deal with someone of her own sort, a lively, active girl in whom her father's intelligence had taken the form of pride: and her glance softened only when it settled on her first-born, that rogue who took neither after her nor her husband, a thorough bad lot. He had turned up from God knows where and, perhaps for that very reason, he was her favourite whom she always forgave.

Fouan had also looked at his children one after the other, dimly worried at what they might do with his property. The drunkard's laziness caused him less concern than the greedy love of pleasure of the other two. He shook his trembling head: what was the point of fretting, since it had to be done!

‘Now that the decision's been taken to share out the land,’ the notary went on, ‘we must settle the terms. Are you agreed as to what annuity to pay?’

At this, everybody suddenly sat still and silent again. Their weather-beaten faces took on the fixed expression and gravity of poker-faced diplomats about to discuss matters involving the fate of an empire. Then they cast a questioning glance at each other; but nobody was ready to speak. Once more it was the old man who explained the situation.

‘No, we haven't talked it over yet, Monsieur Baillehache, we've been waiting until we were all gathered together here… But it's quite straightforward, isn't it? I've got twenty-five acres, or ten hectares they call it now. So if I let it out, that would be just one thousand francs at forty francs an acre.’

Buteau, the least patient of the three, jerked upright on his chair.

‘What did you say? A hundred francs a hectare? Are you trying to have us on, Father?’

And they launched into the first argument, over figures. There was an acre and a half of vines: all right, you could get sixty francs for that. But would anyone ever give that amount for the fifteen acres of arable land and above all for the eight and a half acres of permanent meadow along the bank of the Aigre which produced such poor hay? The arable itself wasn't much to write home about, particularly one bit of it which ran along the edge of the plateau, because the soil was shallower the nearer you came to the valley.

‘Really, Father,’ said Fanny reproachfully, ‘you mustn't try to take advantage of us.’

‘It's worth forty francs an acre,’ the old man kept repeating stubbornly, slapping his thigh with his hand. ‘I can let it for forty francs tomorrow if I want to… And what do you think it's worth then, to you? Let's hear what you say it's worth.’

‘It's worth twenty-five francs,’ said Buteau.

Beside himself with fury, Fouan was insisting on his price and launching into an extravagant eulogy of his land, such good land that it produced wheat without needing any cultivation at all, when Delhomme, who had hitherto said nothing, spoke up, in his honest way:

‘It's worth thirty francs, not a penny more or less.’

The old man immediately calmed down.

‘All right! Let's say thirty francs, I'm prepared to make a sacrifice for my children.’

But Rose had tugged her husband's smock and now spoke up herself, to say just one word summing up all her natural meanness:

‘No!’

Jesus Christ had lost interest. Ever since his five years spent in Africa, he was no longer concerned about the land. He was keen on one thing only, getting hold of his share and turning it into cash. So he continued to sit swaying gently, with a superior, mocking air.

‘I said thirty francs,’ Fouan was shouting, ‘and I mean thirty francs. My word's always been my bond. Twenty-five acres, let's see, that makes seven hundred and fifty francs, let's say eight hundred in round figures… eight hundred francs, that's fair.’

Buteau burst into a loud guffaw while Fanny was shaking her head in protest, as though unable to believe her ears. And Monsieur Baillehache, who had been staring vaguely into the garden since the beginning of the argument, now returned to his clients and seemed to be listening to them as he tugged away obsessively at his whiskers and sleepily digested his excellent luncheon.

However, this time the old man was right: it was a fair price.