"At the nomination of François Germain for director of the bank," said
Polidori. Jacques Ferrand continued.
"A revenue often thousand francs shall be set aside for the expenses and administration of the Bank of the Poor without work, of which the perpetual director shall be François Germain, and the porter and keeper shall be the present porter of the house, named Pipelet.
"M. l'Abbé Dumont, with whom the funds necessary for this undertaking shall be deposited, will form a superior council of supervision, composed of the mayor and the justice of the peace of the ward, who will add to their number the persons whose assistance they shall consider useful to the extension of the Bank for the Poor; for the founder will esteem himself a thousand times paid for the little that he has done if some charitable person will aid in the work.
"The opening of this bank will be announced by every means of publicity possible. The founder repeats, in conclusion, that he takes no credit for what he has done for his brothers. His sole thought is but the echo of this Divine command: 'Love ye one another.'"
"And your place above shall be assigned to you beside Him who hath pronounced th immortal words," cried the abbé, pressing with much warmth the hands of Jacques Ferrand in his own.
The notary was overpowered. Without replying to the encomiums of the abbé he hastened to give him in treasury bonds the considerable sum necessary for the establishment of this institution and for the annuity of Morel the lapidary.
"I dare hope, M. l'Abbé," at length said Jacques Ferrand, "that you will not refuse this new mission confided to your charitable care. Besides, a stranger, called Sir Walter Murphy, who has given me some advice about the drawing up of this project, will partake of your labor, and will visit you today to converse with you on the practicability of the plan, and to place himself at your service, if he can be of any use. Except with him, I pray you to preserve the most profound secrecy, M. l'Abbé."
"You are right. God knows what you are doing for your poor brothers. What matters the rest? All my regret is that I have nothing but my zeal to contribute in aid of this most noble institution; it will be, at least, as ardent as your charity is untiring. But what is the matter? You turn pale. Do you suffer?"
"A little, M. l'Abbé. This long reading, the emotions caused by your kind words, the indisposition from which I am suffering. Pardon my weakness," said Jacques Ferrand, seating himself as if in pain; "there is nothing serious in it, but I am exhausted."
"Perhaps you had better go to bed," said the priest, with an air of lively interest, "and send for your physician?"