of the Royal Court of Colmar, made in 1825, whilst I was finishing reading for the law, by which it was declared that once a natural child was deceased, his descendants could no longer be the object of interposition. Now, Ursule’s father is dead.”
Goupil’s argument produced what, in accounts of legislative sittings, journalists describe by this parenthesis: (Profound Sensation).
“And what does that signify?” cried Dionis, “that the case of gifts made by the uncle of a natural child has never yet come before the court; but, let it come, and the severity of the French law toward natural children would be all the more enforced as we live in an age in which religion is respected. And I can also answer for it that over this lawsuit there would be a compromise, particularly when you can have been persuaded to drive Ursule to the Court of Appeal.”
The delight of heirs finding heaps of gold broke out into smiles, starts, and gestures all round the table, which prevented them from noticing a denial from Goupil. Then, after this outburst, profound silence and anxiety followed the notary’s first word, a most terrible word:
“But—”
Dionis then saw all eyes staring at him, and all faces set in the same expression just as if he had pulled the string on one of those little stages where all the characters walk in jerks by means of machinery.
“But no law can prevent your uncle from adopting
