She nodded.

“Good.  And you have but the one servant.  Go tell her that our dear friend has been in great suffering but is now much better, quite free from pain, in fact, and wants to attend to some business.  Send her to Exchange alley, to the office of Eugene Favre.  He is a notary public”—­He murmured some further description.  “Understand?”

Attalie, still kneeling, kept her eyes on his in silence, but she understood; he saw that.

“She must tell him,” he continued, “to come at once.  But before she goes there she must stop on the way and tell three persons to come and witness a notarial act.  Now whom shall they be?  For they must be white male residents of the parish, and they must not be insane, deaf, dumb, blind, nor disqualified by crime.  I will tell you:  let them be Jean d’Eau—­at the French market.  He will still be there; it is his turn to scrub the market to-day.  Get him, get Richard Reau, and old man Ecswyzee.  And on no account must the doctor be allowed to come.  Do that, Madame Brouillard, as quickly as you can.  I will wait here.”

But the kneeling figure hesitated, with intense distress in her upturned face:  “What are you going to do, Michie Ducour?”

“We are going to make you sole legatee.”

“I do not want it!  How are you going to do it?  How?”

“In a way which he knows about and approves.”

Attalie hid her shapely forehead again on the dead hand.  “I cannot leave him.  Do what you please, only let me stay here.  Oh! let me stay here.”

“I see,” said Camille, with cold severity, “like all women, you count the foolish sentiments of the living of more value than the reasonable wish of the dead.”  He waited a moment for these words to take effect upon her motionless form, and then, seeing that—­again like a woman—­she was waiting and wishing for compulsion, he lifted her by one arm.  “Come.  Go.  And make haste to get back again; we are losing priceless time.”

She went.  But just outside the door she seemed to halt.  Camille put out his freckled face and turtle neck.  “Well?”

“O Michie Ducour!” the trembling woman whispered, “those three witnesses will never do.  I am in debt to every one of them!”

“Madame Brouillard, the one you owe the most to will be the best witness.  Well?  What next?”

“O my dear friend! what is this going to cost?—­in money, I mean.  I am so afraid of lawyers’ accounts!  I have nothing, and if it turns out that he has very, very little—­It is true that I sent for you, but—­I did not think you—­what must you charge?”

“Nothing!” whispered Camille.  “Madame Brouillard, whether he leaves you little or much, this must be for me a labor of love to him who was secretly my friend, or I will not touch it.  He certainly had something, however, or he would not have tried to write a will.  But, my dear madame, if you do not right here, now, stop looking scared, as if you were about to steal something instead of saving something from being stolen, it will cost us a great deal.  Go.  Make haste!  That’s right!—­Ts-s-st!  Hold on!  Which is your own bedroom, upstairs?—­Never mind why I ask; tell me.  Yes; all right I Now, go!—­Ts-s-st!  Bring my hat up as you return.”