“God forbid! Have you not seen the will?”
“I have got no farther than his grave,” was the sombre reply.
The priest sighed. They paced the walk again in silence. At last the Cure said: “You will make the place cheerful, as it once was.”
“You are persistent,” replied the young man, smiling. “Whoever lives here should make it less gloomy.”
“We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, and Monsieur Medallion also.”
“The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell them—eh?” Armand went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found Medallion interesting, and the Avocat and he were old friends.
“You did not send for me, monsieur,” said the Avocat timidly, “but I thought it well to come, that you might know how things are; and Monsieur Medallion came because he is a witness to the will, and, in a case”—here the little man coughed nervously—“joint executor with Monsieur le Cure.”
They entered the house. In a business-like way Armand motioned them to chairs, opened the curtains, and rang the bell. The old housekeeper appeared, a sorrowful joy in her face, and Armand said: “Give us a bottle of the white-top, Sylvie, if there is any left.”
“There is plenty, monsieur,” she said; “none has been drunk these twelve years.”
The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: “I asked Parpon the dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason.”