"It was very well," he whispered. "I thank my God that He has permitted me at the perfect moment to realize my investment in that dead rascal's dishonesty. Have I ever desired wealth save for my little pouponne here? And I have sorely tried thee, my George. But the old naturalist had such faith in his prediction. Now—"
His vision was glazing; the muscles of his face were quietly settling to the repose that death only can command.
"Now, I would see the fruit of my prophecy; would see it all hung on the neck, in the hair of my child, that I may die rejoicing. Canst thou force the casket, George?"
The young man turned with a stifled groan. Some tools lay on a shelf hard by. He grasped a chisel and went to his task with shaking hands.
The box was all eaten and corroded. It was a matter of but a few seconds to prise it open. The lid fell back on the table with a rusty clang.
"Ah!" cried the dying man. "What now? Dost thou see them? Quick! quick! to glorify this little head! Are they not exquisite?"
George was gazing down with a dull, vacant feeling at his heart.
"Are they not?" repeated the voice, in terrible excitement.
"They—Mr. De Jussac, they are loveliness itself. Plancine, I will not touch them. You must be the first."
He strode to the kneeling girl; lifted, almost roughly dragged her to her feet.