The little Basochian was ushered into the room; he bent himself double as he entered, retaining, however, the mocking, self-sufficient air which was customary with him, and which was intensified at that moment by the importance of the commission with which he was charged.
"My aunt sends you to me, you say, monsieur?" said Valentine, gazing fixedly at the messenger. "What does she want? or rather, with what message are you intrusted?"
"Madame, it is a matter of a parcel of real estate—a house that belonged to a second cousin on your mother's side; the said cousin having deceased without issue, and the estate descending to her collateral heirs——"
"Enough, enough, monsieur, I beg you! I understand nothing about inheritances, and I do not care to have my brain confused with all these details, which I find horribly wearisome. Come to the point. What am I to sign? a power of attorney?—Come, tell me quickly!"
"I was coming to the point, madame. Yes, I have a document in my pocket, which you will be good enough to sign, perhaps; but not until you have first read it carefully, for one should never sign anything without reading it."
Bahuchet accompanied his words with such an expressive pantomime, that it was impossible for Valentine not to understand that the little clerk had another message for her, which he dared not deliver before a third person. Her face brightened at once, and she said to the girl:
"Miretta, keep a close watch, be on your guard; and if you hear Monsieur de Santoval coming, move a chair.—And now, Monsieur Bahuchet, explain yourself; no more grimaces. What have you to say to me?"
"Does madame wish that I—before her femme de chambre?"
"I have no secrets from her. Speak at once."
After casting a glance about the room, Bahuchet took from his pocket the letter he had concealed there.