"How much money? Does God ask for money, now, to save me from hell? Why, then, did he not give me money to give him?" "Hush--wretched man----! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?" "Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit, _Monsieur le curé_, you shall have your share." "You will have masses said?" "No, I have not enough for that." "But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say----" "Impossible, _Monsieur le curé_, it is impossible." "You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen." "I wish you a good day, _Monsieur le curé_." When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he going to do? Soon they knew, for without solicitation orders began to be placed with the best tradespeople. Jean Piot had engaged and paid for the largest stable in the village. Tables were being set up in it, and covered with a miscellaneous collection of dishes, as if for a Camacho's banquet, such as was never seen outside of Cervantes' romance. The two village inn keepers had received gigantic orders for food and drink. And Jean Piot, his eyes sparkling with pride, went with a kindly smile from door to door, no longer to beg, but to let everyone know that "in remembrance of their good friendship" he was going to treat the entire countryside for three days. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday there was feasting, junketing, merrymaking--and everyone invited! There were cauldrons of soup; cabbage, potatoes, and beef at will, and fish, and fowls, and cakes and coffee. As for wine, casks of it were tapped, and it was of the best; on top of that, little glasses of spirits, "as much as you liked." Amazement! Exclamations! Certainly Jean Piot was an extraordinary man. It was perhaps unwise to spend all that money at once, when he must necessarily be penniless on the day after. But who was there to blame him, when everybody was taking his share of the feast? Only the _curé_ shook his head, regretting his masses. But public opinion was set in Jean Piot's favour, and not even the Church could swim against the stream. At early dawn on Saturday Jean Piot and the Piotte settled themselves in the middle seats at the table of honour, and the crowd having flocked thither in their best attire, fell upon the victuals, and washed them down with generous potations. At first they were too happy to speak, but how everybody loved everybody else! How glad they were to say so! On all sides handshaking--on all sides affectionate embraces--on all sides cries of joy! And for Jean Piot and his Piotte, what kind and laudatory expressions! What admiration!