that true? and I am not more than forty-five years old, seeing that I was married at nineteen. That’s true, eh?’

The son stammered:

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘So your mother died seven years ago, and I remained a widower. Well! I’m not the sort of man who could remain a widower at thirty-seven, isn’t that true?’

The son answered:

‘Yes, it’s true.’

The father, panting, quite pale, and his face contracted, went on:

‘God, but it’s sore! Well, you understand. Man isn’t made to live alone, but I didn’t want to give your mother a successor, seeing that I had promised her that. So—you understand?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘So, I took a little lady at Rouen, 18 Rue de l’Éperlan, third floor, second door. I’m telling you that, don’t forget it. But a little lady who has been utterly kind to me, loving, devoted, a real wife, eh? You grasp that, my boy?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Well, if I go away, I owe her something. I mean something worth while, which will put her out of the reach of want. You understand?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I tell you she’s a fine woman, yes, a really fine woman, and but for you and the memory of your mother, and the house as well where we had lived all three, I would have brought her here, and then married her for sure—Listen—listen, my boy—I could have made a will—I haven’t made one! I didn’t want to—for these things shouldn’t be written—these things—that’s too big an injury to the legitimate heirs—and, then, that messes everything up—that ruins everybody. Look here, stamped paper isn’t needed—never use it. If I am rich, it’s because I never used it in my life. You understand, my son?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Listen again, listen hard. Then, I have not made my will—I haven’t wanted to—and since I know you, you have a good heart; you are not stingy, or griping, are you? I said to myself that, when my time came, I would tell you all about it, and I would ask you not to forget the little lady: Caroline Donet, 18 Rue de l’Éperlan, third floor, the second door; don’t forget. And then, listen again. Go there immediately when I’m gone, and then arrange so that she won’t need to feel aggrieved at the memory of me. You have money to do it. You can—I am leaving you enough. Listen. Through the week you won’t find her. She works with Madame Moreau, Rue Beauvoisine. Go on Thursday, she expects me that day. It’s been my day for six years. Poor little girl, will she cry? I tell you all this because I know you well, my son. These things one doesn’t tell to the public, or to the notary, or to the priest. These things exist, everybody knows it, but they aren’t talked about, except in case of necessity. Then—no stranger in the secret, nobody but the family, because the family is all in one. You understand?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘You promise?’