“Not till monsieur puts his signature,” said the smiling notary. “Look! it is a livre à souches. Here is the counterfoil on which monsieur marks the cipher. It is very ingenious; but in the country in France there is nothing we trust in like des bons gros sous. We like to hear the money tinkle, n’est-ce pas, Antoine? Not that I say anything against a bank-note, and an English bank-note, monsieur; that is well known to be unimpeachable all over the world.”
“Do not be afraid,” said Mr Goulburn, putting back the cheque-book and the morocco case, and opening the pocket-book—“these are notes of the Bank of France.” Antoine looked at it, devouring it from under his heavy eyebrows. What countless sums might there not be in that drawer! First, the leather case, no doubt full of valeurs of one kind or another; then the book of English money, half as thick as a paroissien; then the bursting pocket-book full of French notes. There is no end to the wealth of those other English; and to think that all should lie almost within reach of a man’s hand, in a drawer against Père Goudron’s outer wall!
Mr Goulburn took out the notes one by one, three notes for five hundred francs each—a fortune! but nothing to the riches that remained. He took them out from a sheaf of others carelessly, closing the pocket-book again and laying it down quite at his ease, not at all excited by the possession of so much money, almost within reach of the dangerous eyes that were watching him.
“Here is your money, my brave homme,” he said. “M. le Notaire tells me all the formalities have been gone through. Do not put it away in a drawer, as I have to do, but invest it, Antoine, invest it; put it somewhere where it will bring you in good interest. That is what we call a very pretty little nest-egg in England. If you manage it well, if you take care of it, there is no telling to what it may grow.”
“Monsieur gives you very excellent advice,” said the notary. “I hope you will take it, Antoine. There are a few little things against you, as indeed there are against most young men, but I hope you will clear them all off, and come back to the village when your service is done with your livret in the best possible order. You have helped to give peace and comfort to one house, and that should be a pleasant thing to think of.”
Antoine received all these good wishes and good counsels with an air of preoccupation. Fifteen hundred francs! it was a fortune. Still, what it was was nothing to what was in the pocket-book which lay so carelessly on the bureau. A thirst, a hunger got into his mind. Was it his fault? was it not rather that of the Englishman with his careless ways? Never, never, in all his life, had he seen what he believed to be so much money before. Instinctively his eyes glanced round under cover of his dark brows. There was the window on one side, a window which gave upon the street, within reach of a man of Antoine’s height; and on the other the door. The bed was at the other side of the room. A clever person might get through a great deal of work without even awaking the sleeper, without doing any more harm.
Helen went out to the door an hour or two later, when her father—who complained of fatigue and agitation, and was querulous and peevish with her, as if the visit of the English strangers was her fault—had gone to bed. It was still not very late. Everything was in full activity at the Lion d’Or, and the sound of the voices, and now and then a scrap of song, still sounded into the quiet air of the night, softened by the distance and by the milder atmosphere, humid and soft, which had succeeded the long frosts. It made the girl’s heart beat to see some one standing waiting for her in the shadow of the house. The moon was shining behind, and all in front of Père Goudron’s was in the blackest shadow. Helen had never had a lover. It was not of that she thought now, as she opened the door cautiously; but yet there was something in this meeting which made her heart beat strangely. Young Ashton came close to the door.
“I have told them I always walk at night; they think everything possible to the eccentricity of an Englishman,” he said with a half smile, “so that I am at your disposal whatever you may be going to do.”
“We are to do nothing,” she said. “He will keep his room; he will say he is ill. Indeed he is not well, Mr Ashton; something is the matter with him, I cannot tell what. He is nervous, he is not himself; he says he has no courage to go away. Perhaps you will not stay long at the château?”
“You wish us to be gone?” he said, with a tone of vexation.