“None to my knowledge. It is quite clear to me that the deceased made no testament, none at least before a notary.”
“But,” objected M. Destourbet, “he may have executed a holograph testament.”
“It is certain, gentlemen,” interrupted Manette, with her soft, plaintive voice, “that our dear gentleman did not go without putting his affairs in order. ‘Manette,’ said he, not more than two weeks ago; ‘I do not intend you shall be worried, neither you nor Claudet, when I am no longer here. All shall be arranged to your satisfaction.’ Oh! he certainly must have put down his last wishes on paper. Look well around, gentlemen; you will find a will in some drawer or other.”
While she applied her handkerchief ostentatiously to her nose and wiped her eyes, the justice exchanged glances with the notary.
“Maitre Arbillot, you think doubtless with me, that we ought to begin operations by examining the furniture of the bedroom?”
The notary inclined his head, and notified his chief clerk to remove his papers to the first floor.
“Show us the way, Madame,” said the justice to the housekeeper; and the quartet of men of the law followed Manette, carrying with them a huge bunch of keys.
Claudet had risen from his seat when the justice arrived. As the party moved onward, he followed hesitatingly, and then halted, uncertain how to decide between the desire to assist in the search and the fear of intruding. The notary, noticing his hesitation; called to him:
“Come, you also, Claudet, are not you one of the guardians of the seals?”
And they wended their silent way, up the winding staircase of the turret. The high, dark silhouette of Manette headed the procession; then followed the justice, carefully choosing his foothold on the well-worn stairs, the asthmatic old bailiff, breathing short and hard, the notary, beating his foot impatiently every time that Seurrot stopped to take breath, and finally the principal clerk and Claudet.