“Yes, the sum!” added Rodin, in an agitated voice, and, for the first time, perhaps, in his life losing his presence of mind; “the sum—­the sum—­the sum!”

“I say, sir,” resumed the old man, “that I hold securities for two hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs, payable to self or bearer—­as you may soon convince yourself, M. Notary, for here is my wife with the casket.”

Indeed, at this moment, Bathsheba entered, holding in her arms the cedar wood chest, which contained the securities in question; she placed it upon the table, and withdrew, after exchanging an affectionate glance with Samuel.  When the latter declared the enormous amount of the sum in hand, his words were received with silent stupor.  All the actors in this scene, except himself, believed that they were the sport of some delusion.  Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had counted upon forty millions.  This sum, in itself enormous, was more than quintupled.  Gabriel, when he heard the notary read those passages in the testament, which spoke of a princely fortune, being quite ignorant of the prodigious effects of eligible investments, had valued the property at some three or four millions.  He was, therefore, struck dumb with amazement at the exorbitant amount named.  Notwithstanding his admirable disinterestedness and scrupulous honor, he felt dazzled and giddy at the thought, that all these immense riches might have belonged to him—­alone.  The notary, almost as much amazed as Gabriel, examined the statement, and could hardly believe his eyes.  The Jew also remained mute, and seemed painfully absorbed in thought, that no other heir made his appearance.

In the depth of this profound silence, the clock in the next room began slowly to strike twelve.  Samuel started, and heaved a deep sigh.  A few seconds more, and the fatal term would be at an end.  Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, Gabriel, and the notary, were all under the influence of such complete surprise, that not one of them even remarked how strange it was to hear the sound of this clock.

“Noon!” cried Rodin, as, by an involuntary movement, he hastily placed his two hands upon the casket, as if to take possession of it.

“At last!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with an expression of joy, triumph transport, which it is impossible to describe.  Then he added, as he threw himself into Gabriel’s arms, whom he embraced warmly:  “Oh, my dear son! how the poor will bless you!  You will be a second Vincent de Paul.  You will be canonized, I promise you.”

“Let us first thank Providence,” said Rodin, in a grave and solemn tone, as he fell upon his knees, “let us thank Providence, that He has permitted so much wealth to be employed for His glory!"’

Father d’Aigrigny, having again embraced Gabriel, took him by the hand, and said:  “Rodin is right.  Let us kneel, my dear son, and render thanks to Providence!”

So saying, Father d’Aigrigny knelt down, dragging Gabriel with him, and the latter, confused and giddy with so many precipitate events, yielded mechanically to the impulse.  It was the last stroke of twelve when they all rose together.