Chicot seemed embarrassed, anxious, with something on the tip of his
tongue which he could not say. At last he said hurriedly:

"Listen, Mother Magloire--"

"Well, what is it?"

"You are quite sure that you do not want to sell your land?"

"Certainly not; you may make up your mind to that. What I have said I
have said, so don't refer to it again."

"Very well; only I think I know of an arrangement that might suit us both
very well."

"What is it?"

"Just this. You shall sell it to me and keep it all the same. You don't
understand? Very well, then follow me in what I am going to say."

The old woman left off peeling potatoes and looked at the innkeeper
attentively from under her heavy eyebrows, and he went on:

"Let me explain myself. Every month I will give you a hundred and fifty
francs. You understand me! suppose! Every month I will come and bring you
thirty crowns, and it will not make the slightest difference in your
life--not the very slightest. You will have your own home just as
you have now, need not trouble yourself about me, and will owe me
nothing; all you will have to do will be to take my money. Will that
arrangement suit you?"