A long interval of silence followed, which Louis was the first to break.

"I cannot tell you how your grief touches me, Florestan," he said, with effusion, "it is so much in sympathy with what I feel at this sad moment."

"What will you, my friend; as you are aware, I had but little affection for my uncle, and could jest concerning his inheritance when I believed him in perfect health. But it would require a heart of stone and an outrageous cupidity to feel no sorrow at the terrible fate which my uncle and his daughter may have met. As to what I have said of avarice, that passion whose consequences are so fruitful, I retract nothing; only I might have treated the subject more seriously had I known it to be a personal question. But I have, at least, proved that I am not of those who receive an inheritance with cynical joy. Now, my dear Louis, forgive me if I ask a question which may revive your grief. In the painful researches made by you to recover your father's remains, did anything lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped?"

"All I can say, Florestan, is, that I did not see them among the injured or dying. As to the victims whose fate they and my father must have shared, their features are unrecognizable."

"As they must have been with your father, they probably shared his fate. However, I shall write to Dreux and make active researches. If you hear of anything new, let me know—But, in the midst of all these sad incidents, I am forgetting Mariette—"

"It was only a cruel misunderstanding, as you suspected. I found her more affectionate and devoted than ever."

"Her love will be a precious consolation in your sorrow—Now, good-bye, my poor Louis. Remember that you may always trust in my affection and friendship for you."

"Ah! Florestan, were it not for your friendship and Mariette's love, I know not how I could bear this crushing blow. Good-bye, my friend, and let me know all you can discover concerning your uncle."

Once alone, Louis pondered long over what he should do. Finally, coming to a determination, he placed the gold he had discovered into a traveling bag, thrust the will into his pocket, and at once proceeded to the office of his employer, the notary and friend mentioned by his father.

The notary was much affected by the details of the probable death of his client and, having expressed his sympathy to Louis, promised to fulfill all the legal formalities necessary to establish the death of the old miser.

"There remains one question I wish to ask," said Louis, when all the arrangements had been agreed upon. "When all these sad formalities have been gone through, can I dispose of my father's possessions?"

"Most assuredly, my dear Louis," replied the notary.

"These, then, are my intentions. I have brought you a sum of money amounting to over two hundred thousand francs, which I found hidden in a drawer; with this gold I wish to assure a pension of twelve hundred francs to the godmother of my fiance."

"But is the young girl in a position that—" interrupted the notary.

"The young girl in question earns her own bread," broke in Louis in his turn. "But I love her, and no power on earth can prevent me from marrying her," he concluded, in a firm, resolute tone.

"Very well," assented the notary, realizing the uselessness of his observations; "the pension shall be paid to the person indicated by you."

"Besides, I will take about fifteen thousand francs to fit up a suitable home," added Louis.

"Only fifteen thousand francs!" exclaimed the notary, astonished at the modest request. "Will it be sufficient?"

"My fiance and myself have been accustomed to a life of labor and poverty, and our ambitions have never gone beyond an existence of modest comfort. An income of a thousand crowns per annum, joined to our own earnings, will therefore amply suffice for our wants."

"Joined to your earnings! What do you mean to do?"

"Remain in your office, if I have not derogated in your estimation."

"What! Work, with an income of over a hundred thousand livres?"

"I cannot yet believe that this large fortune is mine, my dear friend; and even though my poor father's death may be established according to legal formalities, I shall always retain a hope that I may again see him."

"My poor Louis, your hope is an illusion."

"It is an illusion I shall retain as long as possible, monsieur; and while it lasts I shall never feel free to dispose of my father's money, save within the limits I have mentioned."

"No son could act with more perfect, and honorable reserve, my dear
Louis. But what will you do with the rest of the inheritance?"

"So long as there remains the slightest hope of finding my father among the living, you will remain the trustee of his possessions."

"I can only express my admiration for you, my dear Louis. You could not better honor the memory of your father than in acting thus. Everything shall be as you desire; I accept your trust, and will manage the estate as in the past; and I shall this very day make out the contract for the life pension you have mentioned."

"Speaking of that subject, my dear friend, I must enter into details that will seem trifling to you, but which, nevertheless, have their painful side."

"Well?"

"The poor woman to whom this pension is to be given has been so cruelly tried during her long existence, that her character, though naturally generous, has become embittered and distrustful; a promise of happiness would be vain in her eyes, unless accompanied by palpable, material proof—therefore, to convince this unfortunate creature of the reality of the pension promised, I shall take with me the sum of fifteen thousand francs in gold, which represents the capital of her life income. It is the only means of convincing her of my good intentions toward her."

"Nothing is more simple, my dear Louis," acquiesced the notary. "Take what you desire, and rest assured that the papers will be drawn this very day."

After a cordial pressure of the hand, Louis left the old notary and turned in the direction of Mariette's home.