The little notary was hard at work among the papers, tying up bundles, and sealing them, when M. Deshoulières rang the bell for the old couple to answer his questions about Fabien. They knew even less than he expected. They had heard of him, without doubt, but he had never been at Ardron since M. Moreau hired them, and no one found it agreeable to mention his name when it enraged his uncle to such a degree. The notary, who had been glancing over letters, placed a couple in the doctor’s hands.
“They give no information, I fear; but I conceive it my duty to ask you to read every thing in which M. Fabien’s name appears,” he said with an air of profound caution.
Two boyish letters, written from school, and containing but few words. They were tied up carefully, and had evidently been much read. Was this the one human love that could have reached the hard cold man in his prison-house? There were more letters in another packet of slight importance, but all preserved; the last was dated two years and a half ago, during an apparently temporary absence from Rouen, and alluding to the purchase of Ardron.
“And there are no more?” inquired the doctor.
“No more,” answered M. Roulleau, after a momentary pause. “That is to say, I should prefer your assuring yourself on the matter. Here are the papers in order.”
M. Deshoulières applied himself to the task. The two men sat there reading, arranging, making notes, now and then saying a few words, until the afternoon was far advanced. “There is nothing,” exclaimed the doctor, pushing back his chair impatiently. “Was there ever such a predicament!”
“There is nothing, as you say,” assented the notary, slowly. “After all, the property is in good hands.”
“Do not talk about it,” M. Deshoulières said testily. “One would suppose you thought it a fine thing. There is the village still, and the curé. We may hope for something from him.”
In the village—which lay about a league behind the château, and to which the doctor and the little notary walked, under a sweet, grave, evening sky, through trees in which the nightingales were singing with all their might—in the village there were enough surmises offered to them to account for the disappearance of half a hundred nephews; but no facts. Monsieur Fabien desired to see life—Monsieur Fabien could not have his own will—he was, doubtless, an emigrant in America—in the Mauritius—he was with the army in Algeria—he was amassing a fortune among the English—he was a missionary in China. M. Deshoulières was too impatient to sift the trifles which were poured into his ear; M. Roulleau professed himself at his wit’s end. It made quite a little sensation at Ardron to know that these strangers had brought news of Monsieur Moreau’s death, and were seeking tidings of Monsieur Saint-Martin. The rumour travelled up to the presbytère, and Monsieur le Curé was prepared when old Jeanneton came hobbling in, to say that two gentlemen were asking to speak with him. He had an instinctive aversion to strangers, and the welcome he accorded was not particularly gracious. As they sat in the little humbly furnished room, with the curé listening to his story with a grim, unsympathising face, M. Deshoulières thought he had never before entirely realised the disagreeables of his position. Whenever a question was put to him, the curé slightly raised his shoulders or shook his head. There was an air of doubt about the manner in which he received every detail, which irritated the doctor almost beyond bearing. He had never seen M. Fabien. It was possible that he had been at Ardron. The extraordinary terms of the will struck him as incomprehensible in a person of M. Moreau’s solidity. Did he understand them to say that they had already searched the papers at the château without success? Had the two gentlemen before him undertaken the task unaided?
“Monsieur le Curé is not perhaps aware that I have the honour of belonging to the legal profession,” put in the little notary, smoothly.