‘Say rather, that years had, child; for they do every thing in this world; and even I, who now talk to you, if I had some few scores of years less, would you have let me stand here in the snow so long? Oh, no; you would have whipped this precious cloak over my shoulders.’
‘Go along, you old gipsey; such nymphs are not to my taste.’
‘Well, my son, the frankness of your heart pleases me, and I will reward it.’
‘Oh, pray keep your rewards: I am not in want of them.’
‘How naturally that word want comes out of your mouth; and merely because your head is full of it.’
‘Who are you, infernal sybil?’ said Maurice, drawing her towards the light.
‘The sight of my wrinkled face will give you no great pleasure, my child, but, perhaps, my advice may. Listen to me, then. Go home to your own chamber, lock the door, and rip up the collar of your cloak, and when you have done so you will have nothing more to do but to pray to God, as the great king Solomon did, to grant you wisdom.’ As she spoke thus, the old woman hobbled hastily away.
Maurice put his hand to the collar of his cloak, and thought he heard a noise like the rustling of paper. He hastened back to Marie and the town clerk, and told them of his adventure.
‘Just heaven!’ cried Waldau, ‘it must be so. You remember your late father, Maurice, and his eternal apprehensions, which all the locks in the world could not have quieted. You know, too, that he was often obliged to come to this city for the purpose of receiving large sums of money. What would a suspicious man do in such a case? He would convert his money, not into gold, but into paper, because they might easily be concealed.
I do not doubt, from the story of the old woman, who has perhaps been his hostess, his housekeeper, or some faded flower of the mysterious garland of the past, that this cloak served your father for a strong box. Better acquainted with handling ducats than a needle, he probably had recourse to this old woman. You know it was upon his return from a journey that he died. Marie, open the collar quickly—Maurice, take my scissors, they are in my bag—quick.’