They were eager to make a deal. They were showing how eager they were. Against a canny peasant like Lucien Galtier, they were begging to be skinned. He knew now, he would sell the land. Marie would skin him if he let the chance to get electricity escape. But he intended to make the bishop and the colonel sweat first. "It is my patrimony," he growled. "One day, my grandson's grandson will grow wheat on that land."

Colonel Quigley rolled his eyes. "Damn stubborn frog," he muttered under his breath in English. Galtier smiled. He didn't think he was supposed to hear, or to understand if he did. Too bad, he thought. He was a damn stubborn frog, and they would have to make the best of it.

"My son, have you not seen in these past few years how things can change, and change unexpectedly and quickly?" Bishop Pascal asked. "Would you not like to see this change be for the better?"

"By better, your Grace, you mean doing as you wish." Galtier did not want to lose the chance he had here. Gruffly, grudgingly. he said, "Very well. Let us speak of this further, since you insist. Come inside. We may as well sit down."

When he brought them into the farmhouse, Marie fussed over them, as he'd known she would. Once she had them settled with tea and buns, she asked, "How is it that we have such distinguished visitors?"

Before either visitor could speak, Lucien kept right on growling: "They seek to purchase some of our patrimony. Along with money, they even offer electricity/9 He curled his lip, as if to show how little he cared for electricity. "They do not comprehend the importance of a man's patrimony."

"Mme. Galtier, I am sure you can make your husband see reason here," Colonel Quigley said.

"I leave these matters to him. He is the man, after all," Marie said primly. A single flashing glance toward Galtier sent quite another message, but neither Quigley nor Bishop Pascal saw it. After that glance, Marie retreated to the kitchen.

In tones of gentle reason, Bishop Pascal said, "You have not even inquired what the Republic and the United States-we will share the expense, our two countries-might pay for your parcel of land."

"You haven't said what you want for it, either," Quigley said.

"I have not said I would take any amount of money for it," Galtier replied. "But, if you must, you may name a price." Quigley had invited him to set his own price when he'd started getting rent for the land on which the hospital stood. He'd named the highest price he dared, and Quigley had paid without a blink. Lucien knew he could have gone higher, but not how much. This time… If Quigley mentioned any sum less than five hundred dollars, maybe he really wouldn't sell the piece of property.

"The United States are prepared to pay you one thousand dollars for that tract, M. Galtier," Colonel Quigley said.

"And the Republic of Quebec will add one thousand dollars to that sum," Bishop Pascal put in.

Galtier's ears rang. Two thousand dollars? And electricity? "You are not serious," he said, meaning he could not believe they would pay so much.

Thanks to his bold front, Bishop Pascal and Quigley thought he meant they weren't offering enough. The American looked sour, the bishop piously resigned. Colonel Quigley said, "Oh, very well, then. Fifteen hundred from us, another fifteen hundred from the Republic, and not a dime more."

Three thousand dollars? Lucien could buy a motorcar. He could buy a tractor. He would be a man to reckon with for miles around. He smiled at his guests. "Two thousand dollars from the United States, another two from the Republic, and not a dime less."

Colonel Quigley and Bishop Pascal both looked alarmed. Galtier felt alarmed-had he pushed it too far? The bishop and Quigley put their heads together. After a couple of minutes, Bishop Pascal said, "In the interest of concord, we will split the difference with you-one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars from Quebec and a like amount from the United States. Is it agreeable to you?"

"And electricity?" Galtier demanded.

"And electricity," Colonel Quigley said. "I told you that beforehand."

"It is better to have everything certain than to leave anything in doubt." Galtier sighed with reluctance he did not feel. "Very well. Let it be as you say. For one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars from each of your governments-and electricity-I will sell this land, but only, mind you, in the interest of concord, as the holy bishop says."

"God will surely bless you, my son," Bishop Pascal said, beaming.

"Do you think so?" Lucien said interestedly. "That would be good, too."

Bishop Pascal didn't know what to make of that. He scratched his head. Colonel Quigley knew exactly what to make of it. He looked even more sour than he had while they were dickering. Why should he care? Galtier thought. It isn 't his money However sour Quigley looked, the bargain was sealed. The money would be Galtier's-soon, he hoped.

Edna Semphroch came back into the coffeehouse. Nellie Jacobs gave her daughter an unhappy look, even though midafternoon business was slow. Truth to tell, business had never got back to what it was during the war, when Confederate officers from the force occupying Washington had kept the place hopping morning, noon, and night. Nellie didn't miss the Rebs, not even a little bit, but she did miss their cash.

"Took you long enough, didn't it?" Nellie said sourly. "I reckon I could have looked at every skirt between here and St. Louis in the stretch of time you've been gone. And you didn't even buy anything. Can't you make up your mind?" People who joked about women's indecision had never met Nellie.

"Nope, didn't buy anything," Edna agreed. She eyed her mother with an odd mix of amusement and apprehension. "Didn't even go looking at skirts, as a matter of fact."

Nellie had no fancy education. She was, most ways, shrewd rather than really clever. But when Edna said something like that, her mother didn't need a road map to figure out what she'd say next. "You've been sneaking around behind my back," Nellie said, and could have sounded no more outraged if she'd been reading a philandering husband the riot act.

She would have had an easier time accepting a philandering husband. Men got it where they could. That was part-too large a part, as far as she was concerned-of how they were made. Women, though… She'd known for a long time that Edna burned hot. Her daughter had seemed calmer the past couple of years, so Nellie had dared hope she'd got it out of her system. No such luck, evidently.

"I've been trying to have a life, Ma," Edna said. "God knows you don't make it easy for a girl." But the unbearably smug look on her face said she'd had her desire fulfilled-and had something else filled full, too, more than likely.

"You little hussy," Nellie hissed. She wished Clara, who was taking a nap upstairs, would pick that moment to wake up. Otherwise, she'd be locked in a fight with her older daughter of the sort they'd had during the war, the sort they hadn't had since Nellie married Hal Jacobs.

Again, no such luck. Edna tossed her head. "Hussy? Huh! Takes one to know one, I guess." Had Nellie had a knife in her hand, she might have used it. Fortunately, she'd been washing cups and saucers. Edna ignored her furious squawk. Edna seemed inclined to ignore just about everything. She went on, "But none of that matters, anyhow. He asked me to marry him today."

"Did he think about asking you to get an abortion instead?" Wounded, Nellie wanted to hit back any way she could.

Her daughter shook her head. "I ain't in a family way, Ma. And I ought to know, too, I felt so lousy last week." She laughed. 'Turned out you were the one who ended up in a family way. I still think that's the funniest thing in the whole wide world."

If she'd had to find out for sure she wasn't pregnant, she'd been doing things that left doubt in her mind. "At least I was married," Nellie said.