certain--listen--listen, my lad. I might have made a will--I haven't
done so. I did not wish to do so--for it is not necessary to write down
things--things of this sort--it is too hurtful to the legitimate
children--and then it embroils everything--it ruins everyone! Look you,
the stamped paper, there's no need of it--never make use of it. If I am
rich, it is because I have not made use of what I have during my own
life. You understand, my son?"

"Yes, father."

"Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I did
not desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a good
heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way, I said to myself
that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that I
would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When I
am gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangements
that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave it
to you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every day
in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go
there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my day
for the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say all
this to you, because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tell
these things in public either to the notary or to the priest. They
happen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in case
of necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except the
family, because the family consists of one person alone. You
understand?"

"Yes, father."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, father."

"Do you swear it?"

"Yes, father."

"I beg of you, I implore of you, son do not forget. I bind you to it."

"No, father."

"You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything."

"Yes, father."

"And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. As
for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it."

"Yes, father."

"That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm
sure. Tell them they may come in."

Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always
docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice,
carrying the holy oils.

But the dying man had closed his eyes, and he refused to open them
again, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he
understood.