‘Go on, monsieur!’ exclaimed Benoit and his wife in a breath. ‘What is it?’
‘The conveyance of a terrain on the Orbe, in Languedoc,’ continued Philippe, reading, ‘with a plantation of olives and mulberries to Louise Gauthier, to be held by her in common with whomever may have befriended her in Paris, and of which the necessary papers are in the hands of M. Macé, notary, Rue de Provence, Beziers!’
‘I knew it!’ said Benoit, as he slapped the table with a vehemence that sent some things jumping off it, after a few seconds of astonishment. ‘I knew some day fortune would turn. Continue, monsieur.’
Philippe Glazer proceeded to read the note, whilst Louise gazed at him, almost bewildered.
‘“When you receive this,”’ he went on, ‘“I shall have expiated every crime. I feel convinced that my death, come when it may, will be violent and sudden: and whatever may have been my faults, I shall have been punished for them. All I had to dispose of I have left you: in possessing it, do not forget any that have assisted you. It has been kept through every embarrassment to this end; but circumstances prevented my giving it to you in my lifetime. Beware of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers; forgive me for the misery I caused you, which has been repaid one hundredfold, and forget, if possible,
‘“Gaudin de Sainte-Croix.
‘“To be delivered into the hands of Louise Gauthier, or, failing to find her, of Benoit Mousel, at the mill-boat below the Pont Notre Dame, in trust for her.”’
‘There,’ said Philippe, as he concluded, and put the papers on the table; ‘my task is accomplished.’
‘I cannot accept it,’ said Louise after a short pause.
‘Cannot! mademoiselle,’ said the student; ‘you must. Better you take it than it fall into M. Macé’s hands for want of a claimant; and from him to a stranger, or the king, or any of his favourites.’
‘It would only be on one condition,’ continued the Languedocian. ‘That Benoit and his wife shared it with me.’
‘Pardieu! Louise; the terms are not hard,’ said Benoit: ‘and our hard work will lighten the feeling of dependence. Sacristie! a chance of seeing Languedoc again, eh, Bathilde!’