"Well, and those potatoes that I offered you the other day? You did not take them, my good woman--you must carry them home." The Piotte could not remember anybody mentioning potatoes, but she trustfully took whatever was offered. From all sides gifts poured in, along with congratulations on the wealth to come, which was to raise the Piots from the dignity of beggars to the higher functions of the idle living on the labour of others. The news soon received confirmation that an inheritance there was, of which Jean Piot was a beneficiary. Whether large or small, no one knew. The heirs were said to be numerous, and the most contradictory reports ran on the subject of the division. Jean Piot said nothing except "perhaps," or "it is not impossible," which gave small satisfaction. Everyone knew that he had been to see the lawyer, and that he had seemed happy when he came home. The law does nothing quickly. There was a long period of waiting, but public generosity did not weary, and Jean Piot and his Piotte had easily fallen into the way of being received as "the Lord's guests." Finally, the news burst upon the community that Jean Piot had inherited 500 francs, all told. The disappointment caused a violent reaction, and from one day to the next, the couple found everywhere resisting doors and frowning faces. But Jean Piot seemed not to notice them, and before long his look of pleasure and his expressions of satisfaction gave rise to the idea that there must be something more than appeared. "We do not know the whole," people whispered, and each, to forestall the unknown, entrenched himself in a position of benevolent neutrality. Five hundred francs was after all something, and as no one supposed that Jean Piot intended to make a three per cent. investment, many wondered if they might not draw some small advantage from the inheritance. "Jean," said the maker of wooden shoes, "your shoes are a sorry sight. I will make you a pair, cheap, if you like." No representative of commerce or industry but came with offers of obliging the "heir" with bargains in his wares. Jean Piot shook his head, with gracious thanks. That was not what he wanted. Presently it was _Monsieur le curé's_ turn. "Jean Piot, do you ever give thought to your soul?" "Why, of course, _Monsieur le curé_, I am a good Christian, I think of nothing else." "Well, and what do you do to save your soul from the mighty blaze of hell? I never even see you at mass." "That is no fault of mine, _Monsieur le curé_, I have to earn my living. You know very well that I go to the church door. On Sundays people are readier to give alms than on week days." "You should not work on Sundays." "No danger. I can't work any more. Begging is not work." "Do you know what would be a good thing to do? You ought to have masses said, to redeem your sins." "There's nothing I should like better. Will you say some for me?" "Good. How much will you give me?"