Tears of joy, tears which relieved her strained nerves and bathed her in an immense peacefulness. The five men were greatly disturbed, knowing neither what to do nor what to say.

"Mademoiselle?... What's the matter, mademoiselle?"

They seemed so staggered by her sobs and by their own presence round her, that Dorothy passed suddenly from tears to laughter, and yielding to her natural impulse, she began forthwith to dance, without troubling to know whether she would appear to them to be a princess or a rope-dancer. And the more this unexpected display increased the embarrassment of her companions the gayer she grew. Fandango, jig, reel, she gave a snatch of each, with a simulated accompaniment of castanets, and a genuine accompaniment of English songs and Auvergnat ritornelles, and above all of bursts of laughter which awakened the echoes of Roche-PÉriac.

"But laugh too, all five of you!" she cried. "You look like five mummies. It's I who order you to laugh, I, Dorothy, rope-dancer and Princess of Argonne. Come, Mr. Lawyer," she added, addressing the gentleman in the frock-coat. "Look more cheerful. I assure you that there's plenty to be cheerful about."

She darted to the good man, shook him by the hand, and said, as if to assure him of his status: "You are the lawyer, aren't you? The notary charged with the execution of the provisions of a will. That's much clearer than you think.... We'll explain it to you.... You are the notary?"

"That is the fact," stammered the gentleman. "I am MaÎtre Delarue, notary at Nantes."

"At Nantes? Excellent; we know where we are. And it's a question of a gold medal, isn't it?... A gold medal which each has received as a summons to the rendezvous?"

"Yes, yes," he said, more and more flustered. "A gold medal—a rendezvous."

"The 12th of July, 1921."

"Yes, yes—1921."

"At noon?"

"At noon."

He made as if to look at his watch. She stopped him:

"You needn't take the trouble, MaÎtre Delarue; we've heard the Angelus. You are punctual at the rendezvous.... We are too.... Everything is in order.... Each has his gold medal.... They're going to show it to you."

She drew MaÎtre Delarue towards the clock, and said with even greater animation:

"This is MaÎtre Delarue, the notary. You understand? If you don't, I can speak English—and Italian—and Javanese."

All four of them protested that they understood French.

"Excellent. We shall understand one another better. Then this is MaÎtre Delarue; he is the notary, the man who has been instructed to preside at our meeting. In France notaries represent the dead. So that since it is a dead man who brings us together, you see how important MaÎtre Delarue's position is in the matter. You don't grasp it? How funny that is! To me it is all so clear—and so amusing. So strange! It's the prettiest adventure I ever heard of—and the most thrilling. Think now! We all belong to the same family.... We're by way of being cousins. Then we ought to be joyful like relations who have come together. And all the more because—yes: I'm right—all four of you are decorated.... The French Croix de Guerre. Then all four of you have fought?... Fought in France?... You have defended my dear country?"

She shook hands with all of them, with an air of affection, and since the American and the Italian displayed an equal warmth, of a sudden, with a spontaneous movement, she rose on tip-toe and kissed them on both cheeks.

"Welcome cousin from America ... welcome cousin from Italy ... welcome to my country. And to you two also, greetings. It's settled that we're comrades—friends—isn't it?"

The atmosphere was charged with joy and that good humor which comes from being young and full of life. They felt themselves to be really of the same family, scattered members brought together. They no longer felt the constraint of a first meeting. They had known one another for years and years—for ages! cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. So the four men surrounded her, at once attracted by her charm and lightheartedness, and surprised by the light she brought into the obscure story which so suddenly united them to one another. All barriers were swept away. There was none of that slow infiltration of feeling which little by little fills you with trust and sympathy, but the sudden inrush of the most unreserved comradeship. Each wished to please and each felt that he did please.

Dorothy separated them and set them in a row as if about to review them.

"I'll take you in turn, my friends. Excuse me, Monsieur Delarue, I'll do the questioning and verify their credentials. Number one, the gentleman from America, who are you? Your name?"

The American answered:

"Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia."

"Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia. You received from your father a gold medal?"

"From my mother, mademoiselle. My father died many years ago."

"And from whom did your mother receive it?"

"From her father."

"And he from his and so on in succession, isn't that it?"

Archibald Webster confirmed her statement in excellent French, as if it was his duty to answer her questions:

"And so on in succession, as you say, mademoiselle. A family tradition, which goes back to we don't know when, ascribes a French origin to her family, and directs that a certain medal should be transmitted to the eldest son, without more than two persons ever knowing of its existence."

"And what do you understand this tradition to mean?"

"I don't know what it means. My mother told me that it gave us a right to a share of a treasure. But she laughed as she told me and sent me to France rather out of curiosity."

"Show me your medal, Archibald Webster."

The American took the gold medal from his waistcoat pocket. It was exactly like the one Dorothy possessed—the inscription, the size, the dull color were the same. Dorothy showed it to MaÎtre Delarue, then gave it back to the American, and went on with her questioning:

"Number two—English, aren't you?"

"George Errington, of London."

"Tell us what you know, George Errington, of London."

The Englishman shook his pipe, emptied it, and answered in equally good French.

"I know no more. An orphan from birth, I received the medal three days ago from the hands of my guardian, my father's brother. He told me that, according to my father, it was a matter of collecting a bequest, and according to himself, there was nothing in it, but I ought to obey the summons."

"You were right to obey it, George Errington. Show me your medal. Right: you're in order.... Number three—a Russian, doubtless?"

The man in the soldier's cap understood; but he did not speak French. He smiled his large smile and gave her a scrap of paper of doubtful cleanliness, on which was written: "Kourobelef, French war, Salonica. War with Wrangel."

"The medal?" said Dorothy. "Right. You're one of us. And the medal of number four—the gentleman from Italy?"

"Marco Dario, of Geneva," answered the Italian, showing his medal. "I found it on my father's body, in Champagne, one day after we had been fighting side by side. He had never spoken to me about it."

"Nevertheless you have come here."

"I did not intend to. And then, in spite of myself, as I had returned to Champagne—to my father's tomb, I took the train to Vannes."

"Yes," she said: "like the others you have obeyed the command of our common ancestor. What ancestor? And why this command? That is what Monsieur Delarue is going to reveal to us. Come Monsieur Delarue: all is in order. All of us have the token. It is now in order for us to call on you for the explanation."

"What explanation?" asked the lawyer, still dazed by so many surprises. "I don't quite know...."

"How do you mean you don't know?... Why this leather satchel.... And why have you made the journey from Nantes to Roche-PÉriac? Come, open your satchel and read to us the documents it must contain."

"You truly believe——"

"Of course I believe! We have, all five of us, these gentlemen and myself, performed our duty in coming here and informing you of our identity. It is your turn to carry out your mission. We are all ears."

The gayety of the young girl spread around her such an atmosphere of cordiality that even MaÎtre Delarue himself felt its beneficent effects. Besides, the business was already in train; and he entered smoothly on ground over which the young girl had traced, in the midst of apparently impenetrable brushwood, a path which he could follow with perfect ease.

"But certainly," said he. "But certainly.... There is nothing else to do.... And I must communicate what I know to you.... Excuse me.... But this affair is so disconcerting."

Getting the better of the confusion into which he had been thrown, he recovered all the dignity which befits a lawyer. They set him in the seat of honor on a kind of shelf formed by an inequality of the ground, and formed a circle round him. Following Dorothy's instructions, he opened his satchel with the air of importance of a man used to having every eye fixed on him and every ear stretched to catch his every word, and without waiting to be again pressed to speak, embarked on a discourse evidently prepared for the event of his finding himself, contrary to all reasonable expectation, in the presence of some one at the appointed rendezvous.

"My preamble will be brief," he said, "for I am eager to come to the object of this reunion. On the day—it is fourteen years ago—on which I installed myself at Nantes in the office of a notary whose practice I had bought, my predecessor, after having given me full information about the more complicated cases in hand, exclaimed: 'Ah, but I was forgetting ... not that it's of any importance.... But all the same.... Look, my dear confrÈre, this is the oldest set of papers in the office.... And a measly set too, since it only consists of a sealed letter with a note of instructions, which I will read to you:

"There! No other explanations. My predecessor did not receive any from the man from whom he had bought the practice. The most he could learn, after researches among the old registers of the parish of PÉriac, was that the Sire Barbier (Hippolyte Jean), scrivener, lived at the beginning of the eighteenth century. At what epoch was his office closed? For what reasons were his papers transported to Nantes? Perhaps we may suppose that owing to certain circumstances, one of the lords of Roche-PÉriac left the country and settled down at Nantes with his furniture, his horses, and his household down to the village scrivener. Anyhow, for nearly two hundred years the letter intrusted to the strict care of the scrivener Barbier and his successors, lay at the bottom of drawers and pigeon-holes, without any one's having tried to violate the secrecy enjoined by the writer of it. And so it came about that in all probability it would fall to my lot to break the seal!"

MaÎtre Delarue made a pause and looked at his auditors. They were, as they say, hanging on his lips. Pleased with the impression he had produced, he tapped the leather satchel, and continued:

"Need I tell you that my thoughts have very often dwelt on this prospect and that I have been curious to learn the contents of such a letter? A journey even which I made to this chÂteau gave me no information, in spite of my searches in the archives of the villages and towns of the district. Then the appointed time drew near. Before doing anything I went to consult the president of the civil court. A question presented itself. If the letter was to be considered a testamentary disposition, perhaps I ought not to open it except in the presence of that magistrate. That was my opinion. It was not his. He was of the opinion that we were confronted by a display of fantasy (he went so far as to murmur the word 'humbug') which was outside the scope of the law and that I should act quite simply. 'A trysting-place beneath the elm,' he said, joking, 'has been fixed for you at noon on the 12th of July. Go there, Monsieur Delarue, break the seal of the missive in accordance with the instructions, and come back and tell me all about it. I promise you not not to laugh if you come back looking like a fool.' Accordingly, in a very sceptical state of mind, I took the train to Vannes, then the coach, and then hired a donkey to bring me to the ruins. You can imagine my surprise at finding that I was not alone under the elm—I mean the clock—at the rendezvous but that all of you were waiting for me."

The four young people laughed heartily. Marco Dario, of Genoa, said:

"All the same the business grows serious."

George Errington, of London, added:

"Perhaps the story of the treasure is not so absurd."

"Monsieur Delarue's letter is going to inform us," said Dorothy.

So the moment had come. They gathered more closely round the notary. A certain gravity mingled with the gayety on the young faces; and it grew deeper when MaÎtre Delarue displayed before the eyes of all one of those large square envelopes which formerly one made oneself out of a thick sheet of paper. It was discolored with that peculiar shine which only the lapse of time can give to paper. It was sealed with five seals, once upon a time red perhaps, but now of a grayish violet seamed by a thousand little cracks like a network of wrinkles. In the left-hand corner at the top, the formula of transmission must have been renewed several times, traced afresh with ink by the successors of the scrivener Barbier.

"The seals are quite intact," said Monsieur Delarue. "You can even manage to make out the three Latin words of the motto."

"In robore fortuna," said Dorothy.

"Ah, you know?" said the notary, surprised.

"Yes, Monsieur Delarue, yes, they are the same as those engraved on the gold medals, and those I discovered just now, half rubbed out, under the face of the clock."

"We have here an indisputable connection," said the notary, "which draws together the different parts of the affair and confers on it an authenticity——"

"Open the letter—open it, Monsieur Delarue," said Dorothy impatiently.

Three of the seals were broken; the envelope was unfolded. It contained a large sheet of parchment, broken into four pieces which separated and had to be put together again.

From top to bottom and on both sides the sheet of parchment was covered with large handwriting with bold down-strokes, which had evidently been written in indelible ink. The lines almost touched and the letters were so close together that the whole had the appearance of an old printed page in a very large type.

"I'm going to read it," murmured Monsieur Delarue.

"Don't lose a second—for the love of God!" cried Dorothy.

He took a second pair of glasses from his pocket and put them on over the first, and read:

"'Written this day, the 12th of July, 1721 ...'"