“’As soon as they are assembled, the will shall be read, and, at the last stroke of noon, the inheritance shall be finally settled in favor of those of my kindred, who according to my recommendation (preserved, I hope, by tradition in my family, during a century and a half); shall present themselves in person, and not by agents, before twelve o’clock, on the 13th of February, in the Rue Saint-Francois.’”

Having read these words in a sonorous voice, the notary stopped an instant, and resumed, in a solemn tone:  “M.  Gabriel Francois Marie de Rennepont, priest, having established, by legal documents, his descent on the father’s side, and his relationship to the testator, and being at this hour the only one of the descendants of the Rennepont family here present, I open the testament in his presence, as it has been ordered.”

So saying, the notary drew from its envelope the will, which had been previously opened by the President of the Tribunal, with the formalities required by law.  Father d’Aigrigny leaned forward, and resting his elbow on the table, seemed to pant for breath.  Gabriel prepared himself to listen with more curiosity than interest.  Rodin was seated at some distance from the table, with his old hat between his knees, in the bottom of which, half hidden by the folds of a shabby blue cotton handkerchief, he had placed his watch.  The attention of the socius was divided between the least noise from without, and the slow evolution of the hands of the watch, which he followed with his little, wrathful eye, as if hastening their progress, so great was his impatience for the hour of noon.

The notary, unfolding the sheet of parchment, read what follows, in the midst of profound attention: 

Hameau de Villetaneuse,

“’February 13th, 1682.

“’I am about to escape, by death, from the disgrace of the galleys, to which the implacable enemies of my family have caused me to be condemned as a relapsed heretic.

“’Moreover, life is too bitter for me since the death of my son, the victim of a mysterious crime.

“’At nineteen years of age—­poor henry!—­and his murderers unknown—­no, not unknown—­if I may trust my presentiments.

“’To preserve my fortune for my son, I had feigned to abjure the Protestant faith.  As long as that beloved boy lived, I scrupulously kept up Catholic appearances.  The imposture revolted me, but the interest of my son was concerned.

“’When they killed him, this deceit became insupportable to me.  I was watched, accused, and condemned as relapsed.  My property has been confiscated, and I am sentenced to the galleys.

“’Tis a terrible time we live in!  Misery and servitude! sanguinary despotism and religious intolerance!  Oh, it is sweet to abandon life! sweet to rest and see no more such evils and such sorrows!

“’In a few hours, I shall enjoy that rest.  I shall die.  Let me think of those who will survive—­or rather, of those who will live perhaps in better times.