"Not so much as that. My legs are weakening, Monsieur Lanlaire; my arms are getting soft. And then my back. Oh! my confounded back! My strength is almost gone. And then the wife, who is sick, and who never leaves her bed,--what a bill for medicines! One has little luck, one has little luck. If at least one did not grow old? That, you see, Monsieur Lanlaire, that is the worst of the matter." Monsieur sighed, made a vague gesture, and then, summing up the question philosophically, said: "Oh! yes, but what do you expect, father Pantois? Such is life. One cannot be and have been. That's the way it is." "To be sure; one must be reasonable." "That's it." "We live while we can, isn't it so, Monsieur Lanlaire?" "Indeed it is." And, after a pause, he added in a voice that had become melancholy: "Besides, everybody has his sorrows, father Pantois." "No doubt of it." There was a silence. Marianne was cutting up herbs. It was growing dark in the garden. The two big sunflowers, which could be seen in the perspective of the open door, were losing their color and disappearing in the shade. And father Pantois kept on eating. His glass had remained empty. Monsieur filled it, and then, suddenly abandoning his metaphysical heights, he asked: "And what are sweet-briers worth this year?" "Sweet-briers, Monsieur Lanlaire? Well, this year, taking them as they come, sweet-briers are worth twenty-two francs a hundred. It is a little dear, I know; but I cannot get them for less; really I cannot." Like a generous man, who despises considerations of money, Monsieur interrupted the old man, who was getting ready to justify himself by explanations. "It is all right, father Pantois. It is agreed. Do I ever haggle with you? In fact, instead of twenty-two francs, I will pay you twenty-five for your sweet-briers." "Ah! Monsieur Lanlaire, you are too good!" "No, no; I am just. I am for the people, I am; for labor, don't you know?" And, with a blow on the table, he went higher still. "No, not twenty-five,--thirty, father Pantois. I will pay you thirty francs, do you hear that?" The good man lifted his poor eyes to Monsieur, in astonishment and gratitude, and stammered: "I hear very well. It is a pleasure to work for you, Monsieur Lanlaire. You know what work is, you do." Monsieur put an end to these effusions. "And I will go to pay you,--let us see; to-day is Tuesday,--I will go to pay you on Sunday. Does that suit you? And at the same time I will take my gun. Is it agreed?" 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."