“Precisely,” interrupted the tenant, eagerly. “That is, if you could get it. Phoo! I knew you were after something. Will you give eighty thousand francs for it?” abruptly asked Monsieur Bonelle. “Eighty thousand francs!” echoed Ramin. “Do you take me for Louis Philippe or the Bank of France?” “Then, we’ll say no more about it—are you not afraid of leaving your shop so long?” Ramin returned to the charge, heedless of the hint to depart. “The fact is, my good old friend, ready money is not my strong point just now. But if you wish very much to be relieved of the concern, what say you to a life annuity? I could manage that.” Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, churchyard cough, and looked as if his life were not worth an hour’s purchase. “You think yourself immensely clever, I dare say,” he said. “They have persuaded you that I am dying. Stuff! I shall bury you yet.” The mercer glanced at the thin fragile frame, and exclaimed to himself, “Deluded old gentleman!” “My dear Bonelle,” he continued, aloud, “I know well the strength of your admirable constitution; but allow me to observe that you neglect yourself too much. Now, suppose a good sensible doctor——.” “Will you pay him?” interrogated Bonelle sharply. “Most willingly,” replied Ramin, with an eagerness that made the old man smile. “As to the annuity, since the subject annoys you, we will talk of it some other time.” “After you have heard the doctor’s report,” sneered Bonelle. The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which the old man’s keen look immediately detected. Neither could repress a smile: these good souls understood one another perfectly, and Ramin saw that this was not the Excellent Opportunity he desired, and departed. The next day Ramin sent a neighbouring medical man, and heard it was his opinion that if Bonelle held on for three months longer, it would be a miracle. Delightful news! Several days elapsed, and although very anxious, Ramin assumed a careless air, and did not call upon his landlord, or take any notice of him. At the end of the week old Marguerite entered the shop to make a trifling purchase. “And how are we getting on up-stairs?” negligently asked Monsieur Ramin. “Worse and worse, my good Sir,” she sighed. “We have rheumatic pains, which make us often use expressions the reverse of Christian-like, and yet nothing can induce us to see either the lawyer or the priest; the gout is getting nearer to our stomach every day, and still we go on talking about the strength of our constitution. Oh, Sir, if you have any influence with us, do, pray do, tell us how wicked it is to die without making one’s will or confessing one’s sins.” “I shall go up this very evening,” ambiguously replied Monsieur Ramin. He kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bonelle in bed, groaning with pain, and in the worst of tempers.