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."
"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?"
"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."
"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."