The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [42]
When Florent and Quenu entered, Lisa, seated in front of the writing flap of the secretary, was working on rows of numbers in a large, round, and very readable hand. She gestured not to interrupt her, and the two men sat down. Florent, with some amazement, took in the room: the two portraits, the clock, the bed.
“Here we are,” said Lisa after calmly checking an entire page of figures. “Listen … we have some accounts to settle with you, my dear Florent.”
It was the first time she had addressed him in this way. She held the sheet of paper with the figures and continued, “Your uncle Gradelle died without leaving a will; you are, you and your brother, the two sole heirs. Today we owe you your share.”
“But I'm not asking for anything,” Florent protested. “I don't want anything!”
Quenu had known nothing of his wife's intentions. His face had become a bit pale and showed a slight touch of anger. Of course he loved his brother, but it was not really necessary to throw this question of his uncle's inheritance in his face. They could have broached the subject another time.
“I understand perfectly well, my dear Florent,” Lisa started up again, “that you did not come back here just to claim what is yours. However, business is business; it's better to settle it right away. Your uncle's savings came to eighty-five thousand francs. I have therefore put into an account for you forty-two thousand five hundred francs. Here it is.”
She showed him a figure on the sheet of paper.
“Unfortunately, it's not quite that easy to determine the value of the shop, equipment, stock, clientele. I can only estimate, but I think I've figured it all out, and without any skimping. I've come up with a figure of fifteen thousand three hundred and ten francs, which for you comes to seven thousand six hundred and fifty-five francs. See for yourself.”
She had recited the figures in a clear voice, and she now held out the sheet of numbers, which he felt obligated to take.
“But wait a minute!” Quenu cried out. “Since when was the old guy's shop worth fifteen thousand francs? I wouldn't have given you ten thousand for it, myself.”
His wife was beginning to annoy him. You didn't take honesty quite this far. It wasn't as though Florent had ever even mentioned the charcuterie. Besides, he didn't want anything, he had said so.
“The charcuterie was worth fifteen thousand three hundred and ten francs,” Lisa calmly repeated. “You see, my dear Florent, there's no point in calling in a lawyer. It's up to us to share since you've come back. I started thinking about it the moment you showed up, and the whole time you were upstairs in a fever, I've been working on an inventory as best I could. You see, it's all set out in every detail. I looked through all our old papers and tried to remember as best I could. Read it out loud, and I will explain anything you'd like to know about.”
Florent started to smile. He was amused by this honesty, which seemed to come so easily and naturally. He lay the sheet of figures on the young woman's lap. Then he took her hand.
“My dear Lisa,” he said. “I'm very glad to see that you're doing so well. But I don't want your money. This inheritance