Mme. Serbois lowered her eyes. And as her husband carved a chicken she touched her handkerchief to her nose the way one does in weeping.
He continued. “Yes, it is possible that there is a will at the notary’s, and a little legacy for us. I wouldn’t expect anything much, just a remembrance, nothing but a remembrance, a thought, to prove to me that he had an affection for us.”
Then his wife said, in a hesitant voice: “If you like, after lunch we might call on Maître Lemaneur, and we would know where we stand.”
“An excellent idea,” said M. Serbois. “That is what we shall do.” He had tied a napkin around his neck to keep from spotting his clothes with gravy, and he had the look of a decapitated man continuing to talk; his fine black whiskers stood out against the white of the linen, and his face was that of a very superior butler.
When they entered the notary’s office there was a slight stir among the clerks, and when M. Serbois announced himself—even though he was perfectly well known—the chief clerk jumped to his feet with noticeable alacrity and his assistant smiled. Then they were shown into Lemaneur’s private office.
He was a round little man, his head looked like a ball fastened to another ball, to which in turn were fastened a pair of legs so very short and round that they too almost seemed like balls. He greeted them, pointed to chairs, and said, with a slightly significant glance at Mme. Serbois: “I was just going to write you to ask you to come in. I wanted to acquaint you with M. Vaudrec’s will. It concerns you.”
M. Serbois could not refrain from saying, “Ah! I was sure of it.”
The notary said, “I will read you the document. It is very short.” And taking up a paper he read:
“I, Paul-Emile-Cyprien Vaudrec, the undersigned, being of sound body and mind, do hereby express my last wishes.
“Since death can come at any moment, unexpectedly, I wish to take the precaution of writing my last will and testament, which will be deposited with my notary, Maître Lemaneur.
“Being without direct heirs, I bequeath my entire estate, consisting of securities amounting to 400,000 francs, and real property amounting to about 600,000 francs, to Mme. Clair-Hortense Serbois, unconditionally. I beg her to accept this gift from a friend who has died, as proof of his devoted, profound and respectful affection.
“Signed in Paris, June 15, 1883.
Mme. Serbois had lowered her head and sat motionless, whereas her husband was glancing with stupefaction at her and at the notary. Maître Lemaneur continued, after a moment: “Madame cannot, of course, accept this legacy without your consent, Monsieur.”
M. Serbois rose. “I must have time to think,” he said.
The notary, who was smiling with a certain air of malice, agreed. “I understand the scruples that make you hesitate; society sometimes judges unkindly. Will you come back tomorrow at the same time and give me your answer?”
M. Serbois bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
He took a ceremonious leave of the notary, offered his arm to his wife, who was redder than a peony and kept her eyes obstinately lowered, and he left the office with so imposing an air that the clerks were positively frightened.
Once inside their own house, behind closed doors, M. Serbois curtly declared: “You were Vaudrec’s mistress.”
His wife, taking off her hat, turned toward him with a spasmodic movement. “I?” she cried. “Oh!”
“Yes, you. No one leaves his entire estate to a woman unless …”
She had gone utterly pale, and her hands trembled a little as she tried to tie the long ribbons together to keep them from trailing on the floor. After a moment she said, “But … You’re crazy, crazy … An hour ago weren’t you yourself hoping that he would—would leave you something?”
“Yes—he could have left me something. Me—not you.”
She looked at him deeply, as though trying to capture that unknown something in another human being which can scarcely be sensed even during those rare moments when guards are down, and which are like half-open gateways to the mysterious recesses of the soul. Then she said, slowly, “But it seems to me that if—that a legacy of such a size would have looked just as strange coming from him to you, as to me.”
“Why?”
“Because …” She turned her head in embarrassment, and did not go on.
He began to pace the room, and said: “Surely you cannot accept?”
She answered with indifference: “Very well. But in that case there is no need to wait until tomorrow. We can write Maître Lemaneur now.”
Serbois stopped his pacing, and for several moments they stared at each other, trying to see, to know, to understand, to uncover and fathom the depths of each other’s thoughts, in one of those ardent, mute questionings between two people who live together, who never get to know each other, but who constantly suspect and watch.
Then he suddenly murmured, close to her ear: “Admit that you were Vaudrec’s mistress.”
She shrugged. “Don’t be stupid. Vaudrec loved me, I think, but he was never my lover.”
He stamped his foot. “You lie. What you say is impossible.”
She said calmly, “Nevertheless, it is true.”
He resumed his pacing, then, stopping again, said, “Then explain to me why he left you everything.”
She answered nonchalantly. “It is very simple. As you yourself said earlier, we were his only friends, he lived as much with us as in his own home, and when the time came to make his will he thought of us. Then, out of gallantry, he wrote my name because my name came to him naturally, just as it was always to me that he gave presents—not to you. He had the habit of bringing me flowers, of giving me a little gift on the fifth of every month, because it was the fifth of a month that we met. You know that. He almost never gave you anything—he didn’t think of it. Men give remembrances
