“My colleague in Paris has just communicated to me the main item of his will, by which he makes your son Jean—Monsieur Jean Roland—his sole legatee.”
They were all too much amazed to utter a single word. Mme. Roland was the first to control her emotion and stammered out:
“Good heavens! Poor Léon—our poor friend! Dear me! Dear me! Dead!”
The tears started to her eyes, a woman’s silent tears, drops of grief from her very soul, which trickle down her cheeks and seem so very sad, being so clear. But Roland was thinking less of the loss than of the prospect announced. Still, he dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work round to these interesting facts he asked:
“And what did he die of, poor Maréchal?”
Maître Lecanu did not know in the least.
“All I know is,” said he, “that dying without any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune—about twenty thousand francs a year ($3,840) in three per cents—to your second son, whom he has known from his birth up, and judges worthy of the legacy. If M. Jean should refuse the money, it is to go to the foundling hospitals.”
Old Roland could not conceal his delight and exclaimed:
“Sacristi! It is the thought of a kind heart. And if I had had no heir I would not have forgotten him; he was a true friend.”
The lawyer smiled.