The second “ruined” was followed by numerous repetitions of the same word. The last one, at the very end of the sentence, had been ornamented with numerous curves and spirals by the sick woman’s pen.
On the right-hand margin of the sheet stood a series of short notes
“Ten thousand florins to Anna. To be secured to herself. Otherwise they will fall into the clutches of that foot-pad, d’Avila.
“Three times as much to Henrica. Her father will pay her the money--from the sum he owes me. Where he gets it is his affair. Thus the account with him would be settled.
“Belotti has behaved badly. He shall be passed over.
In the middle of the paper, written in large characters, twice and thrice underlined, was the sentence: “The ebony-casket with the Hoogstraten and d’Avila arms on the lid is to be sent to the widow of the Marquis d’Avennes. Forward it to Chateau Rochebrun in Normandy.”
The men, who had mutually deciphered these words, looked at each other silently, until Van Hout exclaimed:
“What a confused mixture of malice and feminine weakness. Let a woman’s heart seem ever so cold; glacier flowers will always be found in it.”
“I’m sorry for the young lady in your house, Herr Peter,” cried the notary, “it would be easier to get sparks from rye-bread, than such a sum from the debt-laden poor devil. The daughter’s portion will be curtailed by the father; that’s what I call bargaining between relations.”
“What can be in the casket?” asked the notary.
“We must open it,” said the lawyer, “perhaps she is trying to convey her most valuable property across the frontiers.”
“Open it? Contrary to the dead woman’s express desire?” asked Van der Werff.
“Certainly!” cried the notary. “We were sent here to ascertain the amount of the inheritance. The lid is fastened. Take the picklock, Meister. There, it is open.” The city magistrates found no valuables in the casket, merely letters of different dates. There were not many. Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained vows of love from the Marquis d’Avennes, the more recent ones were brief and, signed Don Louis d’Avila. Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in which they were written, hastily read them. As he was approaching the end of the last one, he exclaimed with lively indignation: