aps there are
certain confidential conditions which it does not do to put into
writing."

Still, they were all puzzled, and all four a little annoyed at having
invited a stranger, who would be in the way of their discussing and
deciding on what should be done.

They had just gone upstairs again when the lawyer was announced.
Roland flew to meet him:

"Good-evening, my dear Maitre," said he, giving his visitor the title
which in France is the official prefix to the name of every lawyer.

Mme. Rosemilly rose.

"I am going," she said. "I am very tired."

A faint attempt was made to detain her; but she would not consent, and
went home without either of the three men offering to escort her as
they always had done.

Mme. Roland did the honors eagerly to their visitor.

"A cup of coffee, Monsieur?"

"No, thank you. I have this moment done dinner."

"A cup of tea, then?"

"Thank you, I will not refuse presently. First we must attend to
business."

The total silence which succeeded this remark was broken only by the
regular ticking of the clock, and below stairs the clatter of
saucepans which the girl was cleaning--too stupid even to listen at
the door.

The lawyer went on:

"Did you, in Paris, know a certain M. Marechal--Leon Marechal?"

M. and Mme. Roland both exclaimed at once: "I should think so!"

"He was a friend of yours?"

Roland replied: "Our best friend, monsieur, but a fanatic for Paris;
never to be got away from the boulevard. He was head clerk in the
exchequer office. I have never seen him since I left the capital, and
latterly we had ceased writing to each other. When people are far
apart, you know--"

The lawyer gravely put in:

"M. Marechal is deceased."

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 emotions 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 a