"Very well," a.s.sented the notary, realizing the uselessness of his observations; "the pension shall be paid to the person indicated by you."

"Besides, I will take about fifteen thousand francs to fit up a suitable home," added Louis.

"Only fifteen thousand francs!" exclaimed the notary, astonished at the modest request. "Will it be sufficient?"

"My fiance and myself have been accustomed to a life of labor and poverty, and our ambitions have never gone beyond an existence of modest comfort. An income of a thousand crowns per annum, joined to our own earnings, will therefore amply suffice for our wants."

"Joined to your earnings! What do you mean to do?"

"Remain in your office, if I have not derogated in your estimation."

"What! Work, with an income of over a hundred thousand livres?"

"I cannot yet believe that this large fortune is mine, my dear friend; and even though my poor father's death may be established according to legal formalities, I shall always retain a hope that I may again see him."

"My poor Louis, your hope is an illusion."

"It is an illusion I shall retain as long as possible, monsieur; and while it lasts I shall never feel free to dispose of my father's money, save within the limits I have mentioned."

"No son could act with more perfect, and honorable reserve, my dear Louis. But what will you do with the rest of the inheritance?"

"So long as there remains the slightest hope of finding my father among the living, you will remain the trustee of his possessions."

"I can only express my admiration for you, my dear Louis. You could not better honor the memory of your father than in acting thus.

Everything shall be as you desire; I accept your trust, and will manage the estate as in the past; and I shall this very day make out the contract for the life pension you have mentioned."

"Speaking of that subject, my dear friend, I must enter into details that will seem trifling to you, but which, nevertheless, have their painful side."

"Well?"

"The poor woman to whom this pension is to be given has been so cruelly tried during her long existence, that her character, though naturally generous, has become embittered and distrustful; a promise of happiness would be vain in her eyes, unless accompanied by palpable, material proof--therefore, to convince this unfortunate creature of the reality of the pension promised, I shall take with me the sum of fifteen thousand francs in gold, which represents the capital of her life income. It is the only means of convincing her of my good intentions toward her."

"Nothing is more simple, my dear Louis," acquiesced the notary. "Take what you desire, and rest a.s.sured that the papers will be drawn this very day."

After a cordial pressure of the hand, Louis left the old notary and turned in the direction of Mariette's home.

CHAPTER XV.

Louis found Mariette working patiently beside her G.o.dmother, who was apparently sound asleep in her bed and oblivious of her unfortunate lot for a few moments, at least.

The young man's extreme pallor, the alteration of his features and their painful expression, struck Mariette at once and filled her with grave apprehensions.

"My G.o.d! something has happened, Louis!" she cried, coming quickly toward him.

"Yes, something terrible has happened, Mariette," he said sadly. "Have you heard of the terrible accident on the Versailles road?"

"Yes, what a frightful thing! They say there was a large number of victims," she rejoined, with a shudder.

"My father was of the number," he added, simply.

The words had scarcely pa.s.sed his lips, when he felt two soft arms encircle his neck and hot tears inundating his cheeks, while the young girl sobbed as though her heart would break. The two young people remained thus clasped in each other's arms for several moments without uttering a word. Louis was the first to break the painful silence.

"My darling," he said, "you know what deep affection existed between my father and myself--you can understand my despair."

"Your loss is terrible, Louis."

"Your love is my only consolation, Mariette; and I shall ask a new proof--"

"You have but to command--my heart is yours."

"We must marry within the shortest possible delay."

"Ah! Louis! can you doubt my answer for a moment? Is this the new proof of love that you ask?" she said, half reproachfully. Then, after a moment of reflection, she added sadly: "Yet we cannot marry before the end of your mourning."

"My dear Mariette, pray do not let such a scruple stand between us."

"I shall do as you wish."

"Listen, Mariette," said the young man, earnestly: "true mourning is that of the soul, and with me it will endure long beyond the time limited by society and the world in general. My heart is crushed with sorrow, and I can honor the memory of my father without conforming to customs of propriety. And believe me, my darling, a marriage contracted under the painful impressions caused by my sad loss, will appear more solemn and sacred than if contracted under other circ.u.mstances."

"You may be right, Louis; yet it is customary to wait," ventured the young girl.

"My dear Mariette, shall my father be less deeply regretted because you are my wife, and weep over his death with me, because you are wearing mourning for him and are attached to his memory by a tender link?

Besides, my darling, in my grief and isolation, I cannot live without you--I would die."

"I am only a poor working girl, ignorant of the ways of the world, and can only express what I feel, Louis," rejoined Mariette, unable to resist his pleadings. "The reasons you plead for an early marriage seem good to me. I may be wrong, or I may, perhaps, be influenced by my longing to be yours; but I know that I can accede to an immediate marriage without regret or remorse. And yet, it seems to me my heart is as tender as others--"

"Yes, and more ungrateful, too!" interrupted a harsh voice; and Mme.

Lacombe sat bolt upright in her bed, glaring fiercely at the astounded young couple. "Ah! yes," she went on, sarcastically, "you thought the old woman sound asleep, and took advantage of it to talk of your wedding. But I heard every word of it."

"There was not a word which you might not hear; madame," observed Louis, gravely. "Mariette and myself retract nothing we have said."

"The deuce!--I believe it--you think of nothing but yourself. You can talk of nothing but that accursed marriage. As for me--I might as well be in my grave--"

"Allow me to interrupt you, madame," broke in Louis, "and prove that I have not forgotten my promise."

As he spoke, he took a small wooden box from the table, where he had laid it on entering, and deposited it on the bed with the key.

"Open it," he said; "all it contains is yours."

The old woman picked up the key suspiciously, opened the box and peered in.

"Great heavens!" she cried in amazement, dazzled by the glittering contents. Then plunging her hand among the shining pieces, she tossed them about, jingling them together and allowing them to slip through her fingers in a golden shower, muttering covetously:

"Ah! what gold! what gold!--all good and sound, too!--Heavens! what beautiful pieces! What a big sum they must make!"