Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and swearing, cried out: 

“Who do you say called, in the devil’s name?”

She never winced at her master’s roaring voice, and replied: 

“A gentleman from the lawyer’s.”

“What lawyer?”

“Why, M’sieu ’Canu—­who else?”

“And what did this gentleman say?”

“That M’sieu ’Canu will call in himself in the course of the evening.”

Maitre Lecanu was M. Roland’s lawyer, and in a way his friend, managing his business for him.  For him to send word that he would call in the evening, something urgent and important must be in the wind; and the four Rolands looked at each other, disturbed by the announcement as folks of small fortune are wont to be at any intervention of a lawyer, with its suggestions of contracts, inheritance, lawsuits—­all sorts of desirable or formidable contingencies.  The father, after a few moments of silence, muttered: 

“What on earth can it mean?”

Mme. Rosemilly began to laugh.

“Why, a legacy, of course.  I am sure of it.  I bring good luck.”

But they did not expect the death of any one who might leave them anything.

Mme. Roland, who had a good memory for relationships, began to think over all their connections on her husband’s side and on her own, to trace up pedigrees and the ramifications of cousin-ship.

Before even taking off her bonnet she said: 

“I say, father” (she called her husband “father” at home, and sometimes “Monsieur Roland” before strangers), “tell me, do you remember who it was that Joseph Lebru married for the second time?”

“Yes—­a little girl named Dumenil, a stationer’s daughter.”

“Had they any children?”

“I should think so! four or five at least.”

“Not from that quarter, then.”

She was quite eager already in her search; she caught at the hope of some added ease dropping from the sky.  But Pierre, who was very fond of his mother, who knew her to be somewhat visionary and feared she might be disappointed, a little grieved, a little saddened if the news were bad instead of good, checked her: 

“Do not get excited, mother; there is no rich American uncle.  For my part, I should sooner fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean.”

Every one was surprised at the suggestion, and Jean was a little ruffled by his brother’s having spoken of it before Mme. Rosemilly.

“And why for me rather than for you?  The hypothesis is very disputable.  You are the elder; you, therefore, would be the first to be thought of.  Besides, I do not wish to marry.”

Pierre smiled sneeringly: 

“Are you in love, then?”

And the other, much put out, retorted:  “Is it necessary that a man should be in love because he does not care to marry yet?”

“Ah, there you are!  That ‘yet’ sets it right; you are waiting.”