“But your father’s,” said Corentin, “was involved in certain mysteries which perhaps you would rather not make public.”
“Is it anything we need blush for?” said Eve, in alarm.
“Oh, no! a sin of his youth,” said Corentin, coldly setting one of his mouse-traps. “Monsieur, your father left an elder son——”
“Oh, the old rascal!” cried Courtois. “He was never very fond of you, Monsieur Sechard, and he kept that secret from you, the deep old dog!—Now I understand what he meant when he used to say to me, ‘You shall see what you shall see when I am under the turf.’”
“Do not be dismayed, monsieur,” said Corentin to Sechard, while he watched Eve out of the corner of his eye.
“A brother!” exclaimed the doctor. “Then your inheritance is divided into two!”
Derville was affecting to examine the fine engravings, proofs before letters, which hung on the drawing-room walls.
“Do not be dismayed, madame,” Corentin went on, seeing amazement written on Madame Sechard’s handsome features, “it is only a natural son. The rights of a natural son are not the same as those of a legitimate child. This man is in the depths of poverty, and he has a right to a certain sum calculated on the amount of the estate. The millions left by your father——”
At the word millions there was a perfectly unanimous cry from all the persons present. And now Derville ceased to study the prints.
“Old Sechard?—Millions?” said Courtois. “Who on earth told you that? Some peasant——”