Bordières, all your farms, mills, meadows—you have a hundred thousand francs a year with your investments in the Funds.”
“I have nothing in the Funds,” said Minoret, hastily.
“Bah!” said the justice of the peace. “Look here, this is rather like your son’s love for Ursule, first he turns up his nose at her, then asks her in marriage. After having tried to kill Ursule with grief, you want her for a daughter-in-law! My dear monsieur; you have something in your mind—”
Minoret tried to answer, sought for words, and all he could hit upon was:
“You are funny, Monsieur le Juge de Paix—Good-bye, messieurs.”
And he turned slowly into the Rue des Bourgeois.
“He has stolen our poor Ursule’s fortune! but how are we to fish for proofs?”
“God grant—!” said the curé.
“God has placed some feeling within us which is already speaking in this man,” broke in the justice of the peace, “but we call that presumption, and human justice requires something more.”
