"Thirty-two feet lost," said Grandet to Cruchot. "I had three hundred
poplars in this one line, isn't that so? Well, then, three h-h-hundred
times thir-thirty-two lost m-m-me five hundred in h-h-hay; add twice
as much for the side rows,--fifteen hundred; the middle rows as much
more. So we may c-c-call it a th-thousand b-b-bales of h-h-hay--"
"Very good," said Cruchot, to help out his friend; "a thousand bales
are worth about six hundred francs."
"Say t-t-twelve hundred, be-c-cause there's three or four hundred
francs on the second crop. Well, then, c-c-calculate that t-twelve
thousand francs a year for f-f-forty years with interest c-c-comes
to--"
"Say sixty thousand francs," said the notary.
"I am willing; c-c-comes t-t-to sixty th-th-thousand. Very good,"
continued Grandet, without stuttering: "two thousand poplars forty
years old will only yield me fifty thousand francs. There's a loss. I
have found that myself," said Grandet, getting on his high horse.
"Jean, fill up all the holes except those at the bank of the river;
there you are to plant the poplars I have bought. Plant 'em there, and
they'll get nourishment from the government," he said, turning to
Cruchot, and giving a slight motion to the wen on his nose, which
expressed more than the most ironical of smiles.
"True enough; poplars should only be planted on poor soil," said
Cruchot, amazed at Grandet's calculations.
"Y-y-yes, monsieur," answered the old man satirically.
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