“Don’t speak such words, peasant. Where do people ever treat their pensioners differently? What is given to the pensioner [vyminkar] is a lost thing to the farm, particularly if he has no need of anything, just as, in fact, your father had not.”
“You always deafen my conscience, wife.”
“Yes, when conscience tells thee to reckon five for nine. And when it dubs me an ambitious worldling—is that conscience?”
Such and similar remarks were made by this woman beside the corpse of the venerable centenarian, her father-in-law. The grave which generally closes the lips of slander had no such effect upon her.
Then her eyes fell on a small table which contained, as she was aware, a considerable amount of her late father-in-law’s property. She reconnoitred the small table, found a key in the drawer, pointed it out to her husband, and said well delighted, “You see we have the key in our hands; it will be ours; ours, too, will be all these savings and not that nasty Frank’s. And you would have let the boy stay and take it all.”
Her husband understood this hint, and stepped close to the table in order to assist his wife in her investigation, and also to see with his own eyes how much his father’s savings might amount to.
They had just not opened the drawer when they heard steps—many steps on the staircase. They listened, the little key remained in their hands just tapping against the table. At that moment entered the living-room of the pension house—the mayor, and after him almost all the neighbours.
Frank also had taken this opportunity to insinuate himself into his grandfather’s apartment, knelt again beside the corpse, and only called out, “Oh! grandfather! oh! grandfather!”
The mayor saluted, “Neighbour Loyka, may God console you. Look here; just read through what is written on this paper and then give that key in my hands.”
At these words the peasant woman grew pale, and almost trembled. “You see here, neighbours, a key in my hand. I should like to know who dares to say, “That key is mine.’”
“Certainly you dare not say so, my good gossip”, said the mayor sleekly. “Just wait until your husband has read through what I have given him.”
When hospodar Loyka had read his father’s last will and testament to the end, he went to his wife, tore the key out of her hand, and said, “Take it, my good gossip, the mayor!”
