the walk in Nemours, to an old one."

"Mother," said Desire to Zelie's ear, as much allured by the millions as
by Ursula's beauty, "If I married her we should get the whole property."

"Are you crazy?--you, who'll some day have fifty thousand francs a year
and be made a deputy! As long as I live you never shall cut your throat
by a foolish marriage. Seven hundred thousand francs, indeed! Why, the
mayor's only daughter will have fifty thousand a year, and they have
already proposed her to me--"

This reply, the first rough speech his mother had ever made to him,
extinguished in Desire's breast all desire for a marriage with the
beautiful Ursula; for his father and he never got the better of any
decision once written in the terrible blue eyes of Zelie Minoret.

"Yes, but see here, Monsieur Dionis," cried Cremiere, whose wife had
been nudging him, "if the good man took the thing seriously and married
his goddaughter to Desire, giving her the reversion of all the property,
good-by to our share in it; if he lives five years longer uncle may be
worth a million."

"Never!" cried Zelie, "never in my life shall Desire marry the daughter
of a bastard, a girl picked up in the streets out of charity. My son
will represent the Minorets after the death of his uncle, and the
Minorets have five hundred years of good bourgeoisie behind them. That's
equal to the nobility. Don't be uneasy, any of you; Desire will marry
when we find a chance to put him in the Chamber of deputies."

This lofty declaration was backed by Goupil, who said:--

"Desire, with an allowance of twenty-four thousand francs a year, will
be president of a royal court or solicitor-general; either office leads
to the peerage. A foolish marriage would ruin him."

The heirs were now all talking at once; but they suddenly held their
tongues when Minoret rapped on the table with his fist to keep silence
for the notary.

"Your uncle is a worthy man," continued Dionis. "He believes he's
immortal; and, like most clever men, he'll let death overtake him before
he has made a will. My advice therefore is to induce him to invest his
capital in a way that will make it difficult for him to disinherit you,
and I know of an opportunity, made to hand. That little Portenduere
is in Saint-Pelagie, locked-up for one hundred and some odd thousand
francs' worth of debt. His old mother knows he is in prison; she is
crying like a Magdalen. The abbe is to dine with her; no doubt she w