“What a depth of villainy!” cried the postmaster. “Ah, God will not permit me to be thus thwarted!”
Take them at once, with the small savings left at the moment of my death, which are in the next volume. Remember, my darling child, that you are bound to obey blindly the wish that has been the joy of my whole life, and which will compel me to appeal for help to God if you should disobey me. But to guard against any scruple of your dear conscience, which is, I know, ingenious in tormenting you, you will find with this a Will in due form, bequeathing these certificates to Monsieur Savinien de Portenduère; so, whether you own them, or they are the gift of your lover, they will be legitimately yours.—Your godfather,
Subjoined to this letter, on a sheet of stamped paper, was the following document:
This is my Will.
I, Denis Minoret, Doctor of Medicine, resident at Nemours, sound in mind and body, as the date of this Will proves, dedicate my soul to God, beseeching Him to forgive my long errors in favor of my sincere repentance. Then, having discerned in the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduère a sincere affection for me, I bequeath to him thirty-six thousand francs in perpetual consols at three percent, to be paid out of my estate as a first charge.
Made and written all by my own hand at Nemours, January 11, 1831.
Without a moment’s hesitation the postmaster, who, to make sure of being alone, had locked himself into his wife’s room, looked about for the tinderbox; he had two warnings from heaven by the extinction of two matches which would not light. The third blazed up. He burnt the letter and the will on the hearth, and took the needless precaution of burying the ashes of the paper and wax in the cinders. Then, licking his lips at the idea of having thirty-six thousand francs unknown to his wife, he flew back to his uncle’s house, spurred by one idea—the single fixed idea that his dull brain could master. On seeing his uncle’s dwelling invaded by the three families, at last in possession of the stronghold, he quaked lest he should be unable to carry out a project which he gave himself no time to think over, considering only the obstacles in the way.
“What are you doing there?” he said to Massin and Crémière. “Do you suppose that we are going to leave the house and papers to be pillaged? There are three of us; we cannot encamp on the spot. You, Crémière, go at once to Dionis and tell him to come and certify the death. Though I am an official, I am not competent to draw up the death certificate of my own uncle. You, Massin, had better ask old Bongrand to seal up everything. You,” he added to his wife, Madame Massin, and Madame Crémière, “you should sit with Ursule, ladies, and so nothing can be taken. Above all, lock the gate, so that no one can get out.”
The women, who felt the weight of this advice, went at once to Ursule’s room, where they found the noble girl, already the object of such cruel suspicions, on her knees in prayer, her face bathed in tears.
Minoret, guessing that they would not remain long with Ursule, and suspicious of his co-heirs’ want of trust in him, hastened to the library, saw the volume, which he opened, took out the three certificates, and found in the other thirty bank notes. Notwithstanding his base nature, the big man fancied a whole chime was ringing in each ear, the blood hissed in his brain, as he achieved the theft. In spite of the cold weather, his shirt was wet with perspiration down his back; and his legs shook to such a degree that he dropped into an armchair in the drawing-room as if he had been struck on the head with a sledgehammer.
“Dear me, how glib the idea of a fortune has made old Minoret!” Massin had said, as they hurried through the town. “Did you notice?” he observed to Crémière. “Come here, and go there! How well he knows the game!”
“Yes, for a fathead he had a style—”
“I say,” said Massin in alarm, “his wife is with him. They are two too many. Do you run the errands; I will go back again.”
So just as the postmaster had seated himself, he saw the registrar’s hot face at the gate, for he had run back with the nimbleness of a ferret.
“Well, what is it?” asked the postmaster, as he let in his co-heir.
“Nothing; I came back to witness the sealing,” replied Massin, glaring at him like a wild cat.
“I wish it were done, and that we could all go quietly home,” said Minoret.
“And we will put someone in charge,” said the registrar. “La Bougival is capable of anything in the interest of that little minx. We will put in Goupil.”
“Goupil!” cried Minoret; “he would find the hoard, and we should see nothing but smoke.”
“Let us see,” replied Massin; “this evening they will watch by the dead. We shall have everything sealed up in an hour, so our wives will be on guard themselves. The funeral must be tomorrow at noon. The inventory cannot be made till after a week.”
“But,” said the colossus smiling, “we can turn out that minx, and we will engage the mayor’s drummer to stop in the house and guard the property.”
“Very good,” said the registrar, “see to that yourself; you are the head of the Minorets.”
“Now, ladies, ladies, be so good as to wait in
