“Old hypocrite!” cried Crémière. “I will keep guard. It is quite possible that he may plot something against our interests.”
The postmaster had already disappeared into the garden, intending to watch over his uncle with Ursule, and to gain admission into the house as her assistant. He came back on tiptoe without his boots making a sound, for there were carpets in the passages and on the stairs. He thus came close to his uncle’s door without being heard. The curé and the physician had left; La Bougival was preparing the mustard plasters.
“Are we quite alone?” said the old man to his ward.
Ursule stood on tiptoe to look out on the courtyard.
“Yes,” said she, “Monsieur le Curé shut the gate as he went out.”
“My darling child,” said the dying man, “my hours, my minutes are numbered. I have not been a doctor for nothing; the mustard plasters recommended by the apothecary will not carry me through till tonight.—Do not cry, Ursule,” he said, finding himself interrupted by his ward’s sobs, “But listen to me: the point is that you should marry Savinien. As soon as La Bougival comes up with the sinapism, go down to the Chinese pavilion; here is the key; lift up the marble top of the Boule cabinet, and under it you will find a letter addressed to you; take it, and come up and show it to me, for I shall not die easy unless I know that it is in your hands. When I am dead, do not at once announce the fact; first send for Monsieur de Portenduère, read the letter together, and swear to me in his name and in your own that you will obey my last injunctions. When he has done what I desire, you can announce my death, and then the comedy of the inheritance will begin.—God grant that those monsters may not ill-use you.”
“Yes, godfather.”
The postmaster did not wait for the end of the scene; he took himself off on tiptoe, remembering that the locked door of the pavilion opened from the book-gallery. He himself had been present at the time of a discussion between the architect and the locksmith, who had insisted that if there were to be a way into the house through the window looking out on the river, there must be a lock to the door leading into the book-gallery, the pavilion being a sort of summerhouse.
Minoret, his eyes dim with greed, and his blood singing in his ears, unscrewed the lock with a pocketknife as dexterously as a thief. He went into the pavilion, took the packet of papers without stopping to open it, replaced the lock and restored order, and then went to sit in the dining-room, waiting till La Bougival should be gone upstairs with the mustard plaster, to steal out of the house. This he achieved with all the greater ease because Ursule thought it more necessary to see that the mustard was applied than to obey her godfather’s injunctions.
“The letter, the letter,” said the old man in a dying voice. “Do as I bid you—there is the key. I must see the letter in your hands.”
He spoke with such a wild look, that La Bougival said to Ursule: “Do as your godfather tells you, at once, or you’ll be the death of him.”
She kissed his forehead, took the key, and went down, but was immediately recalled by a piercing cry from La Bougival, and ran back. The old man glanced at her, saw that her hands were empty, sat up in bed, and tried to speak—and then died with a last fearful gasp, his eyes staring with terror.
The poor child, seeing death for the first time, fell on her knees, and melted into tears. La Bougival closed the old man’s eyes, and laid him straight. Then, when she had “dressed the corpse,” as she said, she went to call Monsieur Savinien; but the heirs, who were prowling at the top of the street, surrounded by an inquisitive crowd, exactly like a flock of crows waiting till a horse is buried, to come and scratch up the earth, and ferret with beak and claws, came running in with the swiftness of birds of prey.
The postmaster, meanwhile, had gone home to master the contents of the mysterious packet. This was what he read:
To my dear Ursule Mirouët, daughter of my illegitimate brother-in-law, Joseph Mirouët, and of his wife, Dinah Grollman.
Nemours, January 15, 1830.
My little Angel—My fatherly affection, which you have so fully justified, is based not merely on the promise I swore to your poor father to fill his place, but also on your likeness to Ursule Mirouët, my late wife, of whom you constantly remind me by your grace and nature, your artlessness and charm.
Your being the child of my father-in-law’s natural son might lead to any Will in your favor being disputed—
“The old rascal!” exclaimed the postmaster.
My adopting you would have given rise to a lawsuit. Again, I have always been averse to the notion of marrying you myself to leave you my fortune, for I might have lived to a great age and spoilt your future happiness, which is delayed only by the life of Madame de Portenduère. Having regard to these difficulties, and wishing to leave you a fortune adequate to a handsome position—
“The old wretch, he thought of everything!”
Without doing any injury to my heirs—
“Miserable Jesuit! As if we had not a right to his whole fortune!”
I have put aside for you the sum-total of my savings for the last eighteen years, which I have regularly invested by my lawyer’s assistance, in the hope of leaving you as happy as money can make you. Without wealth your education and superior ideas would be a misfortune; besides, you ought to bring a good dowry
