Seven hundred and fifty thousand-franc notes shone in the eyes of Prudence Servien, who exclaimed:
“Won’t we be happy and honest for the rest of our lives!”
Paccard made no objection. His instincts as a thief were stronger than his attachment to Trompe-la-Mort.
“Durut is dead,” he said at length; “my shoulder is still a proof before letters. Let us be off together; divide the money, so as not to have all our eggs in one basket, and then get married.”
“But where can we hide?” said Prudence.
“In Paris,” replied Paccard.
Prudence and Paccard went off at once, with the promptitude of two honest folks transformed into robbers.
“My child,” said Carlos to Asie, as soon as she had said three words, “find some letter of Esther’s while I write a formal will, and then take the copy and the letter to Girard; but he must be quick. The will must be under Esther’s pillow before the lawyers affix the seals here.”
And he wrote out the following will:—
“Never having loved any one on earth but Monsieur Lucien Chardon
de Rubempre, and being resolved to end my life rather than relapse
into vice and the life of infamy from which he rescued me, I give
and bequeath to the said Lucien Chardon de Rubempre all I may
possess at the time of my decease, on condition of his founding a
mass in perpetuity in the parish church of Saint-Roch for the
repose of her who gave him her all, to her last thought.
“ESTHER GOBSECK.”