“Bah! he will bury us all; he is in better health than we are,” replied the heir hypocritically.
“Well, if it is not you, your children will always inherit, unless that little Ursule—”
“He will not leave all to her.”
Ursule, according to Madame Massin’s anticipations, was the bête-noire of the heirs, their sword of Damocles, and this remark, “Bah! those that live will see!” Madame Crémière’s favorite conclusion, was enough to show that they wished her more harm than good.
The tax-gatherer and the clerk, both poor compared to the postmaster, had often, by way of conversation, estimated the doctor’s inheritance. Whilst walking along the canal or on the road, if they saw their uncle coming, they would look at each other piteously.
“No doubt he has kept some elixir of long life for himself,” one would say.
“He has made a compact with the devil,” the other would reply.
“He ought to favor both of us, because that fat Minoret does not want anything.”
“Ah! Minoret has a son who will squander lots of money!”
“What do you reckon the doctor’s fortune to be?” the clerk asked the financier.
“At the end of twelve years, twelve thousand francs saved every year gives one hundred and forty-four thousand francs, and the compound interest produces at least one hundred thousand francs; but,
