Sweeping his coins together with one hand, he stood up,
his flashing eyes glancing the stranger over carelessly.
"Your name, sir?" he demanded--"I am not acquainted with you."
The smiling man unabashed, sought about for a place to put down his
shiny hat, and smiled still more broadly.
"No!" he said--"No! You would not be likely to know me. I have not
the celebrity of Gys Grandit! I am only Andre Petitot--a lawyer,
residing in the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have just come from your
father's funeral."
Cyrillon bowed gravely, and remained silent.
"I have followed you," pursued Monsieur Petitot affably, "as soon as
I could, according to the instructions I received, to ask when it
will be convenient for you to hear me read your father's will?"
The young man started.
"His will!" he ejaculated. He had never given it a thought. "Yes.
May I take a chair? There are only two in the room, I perceive!
Thanks!" And the lawyer sat down and began drawing off his gloves,--
"Your father had considerable means,--though he parted with much
that he might have kept, through his extraordinary liberality to the
poor--"
"God bless him!" murmured Cyrillon.
"Yes--yes--no doubt God will bless him!" said Monsieur Petitot
amicably--"According to your way of thinking, He ought to do so.
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