Both man and wife responded with the little movement of pained surprise, genuine or false, but always ready, with which such news is received.

Maitre Lecanu went on: 

“My colleague in Paris has just communicated to me the main item of his will, by which he makes your son Jean—­Monsieur Jean Roland—­his sole legatee.”

They were all too much amazed to utter a single word.  Mme. Roland was the first to control her emotion and stammered out: 

“Good heavens!  Poor Leon—­our poor friend!  Dear me!  Dear me!  Dead!”

The tears started to her eyes, a woman’s silent tears, drops of grief from her very soul, which trickle down her cheeks and seem so very sad, being so clear.  But Roland was thinking less of the loss than of the prospect announced.  Still, he dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work round to these interesting facts he asked: 

“And what did he die of, poor Marechal?”

Maitre Lecanu did not know in the least.

“All I know is,” said he, “that dying without any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune—­about twenty thousand francs a year ($3,840) in three per cents—­to your second son, whom he has known from his birth up, and judges worthy of the legacy.  If M. Jean should refuse the money, it is to go to the foundling hospitals.”

Old Roland could not conceal his delight and exclaimed: 

“Sacristi!  It is the thought of a kind heart.  And if I had had no heir I would not have forgotten him; he was a true friend.”

The lawyer smiled.

“I was very glad,” he said, “to announce the event to you myself.  It is always a pleasure to be the bearer of good news.”

It had not struck him that this good news was that of the death of a friend, of Roland’s best friend; and the old man himself had suddenly forgotten the intimacy he had but just spoken of with so much conviction.

Only Mme. Roland and her sons still looked mournful.  She, indeed, was still shedding a few tears, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which she then pressed to her lips to smother her deep sobs.

The doctor murmured: 

“He was a good fellow, very affectionate.  He often invited us to dine with him—­my brother and me.”

Jean, with wide-open, glittering eyes, laid his hand on his handsome fair beard, a familiar gesture with him, and drew his fingers down it to the tip of the last hairs, as if to pull it longer and thinner.  Twice his lips parted to utter some decent remark, but after long meditation he could only say this: 

“Yes, he was certainly fond of me.  He would always embrace me when I went to see him.”

But his father’s thoughts had set off at a gallop—­galloping round this inheritance to come; nay, already in hand; this money lurking behind the door, which would walk in quite soon, to-morrow, at a word of consent.