The lawyer gravely put in:
"M. Maréchal 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.
Maître 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 emotion and stammered out:
"Good heavens! Poor Léon—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 announced. Still, he dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work round to these interesting facts he asked:
"And what did he die of, poor Maréchal?"
Maitre Lecanu did not know in the least.
"All I know is," said he, "that dying without any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune
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