The Legacy
Monsieur and Madame Serbois were lunching, sitting opposite each other. Both looked gloomy.
She, a little blonde with rosy skin and blue eyes and a gentle manner, was eating slowly without raising her head, as though she were haunted by some sad and persistent thought. He, tall, broad, with side-whiskers and the air of a statesman or business man, seemed nervous and preoccupied. Finally he said, as though speaking to himself, “Really, it’s astonishing.”
“What is?” his wife asked.
“That Vaudrec shouldn’t have left us anything.”
Madame Serbois blushed; she blushed instantly, as though a rosy veil had suddenly been drawn over the skin of her throat and face. “Perhaps there is a will at the notary’s,” she said. “It is too early for us to know.”
She said it with assurance, and Serbois answered reflectively: “Yes, that is possible. After all, he was the best friend of both of us, always here, staying for dinner every other day. I know he gave you many presents—that was perhaps his way of repaying our hospitality—but really, one does think of friends like us in a will. I know that if it had been I who had not felt well, I would have made some provision for him, even though you are my natural heir.”
Mme. Serbois lowered her eyes. And as her husband carved a chicken she touched her handkerchief to her nose the way one does in weeping.
He continued. “Yes, it is possible that there is a will at the notary’s, and a little legacy for us. I wouldn’t expect anything much, just a remembrance, nothing but a remembrance, a thought, to prove to me that he had an affection for us.”
Then his wife said, in a hesitant voice: “If you like, after lunch we might call on Maître Lemaneur, and we would know where we stand.”
“An excellent idea,” said M. Serbois. “That is what we shall do.” He had tied a napkin around his neck to keep from spotting his clothes with gravy, and he had the look of a decapitated man continuing to talk; his fine black whiskers stood out against the white of the linen, and his face was that of a very superior butler.
When they entered the notary’s office there was a slight stir among the clerks, and when M. Serbois announced himself—even though he was perfectly well known—the chief clerk jumped to his feet with noticeable alacrity and his assistant smiled. Then they were shown into Lemaneur’s private office.
He was a round little man, his head looked like a ball fastened to another ball, to which in turn were fastened a pair of legs so very short and round that they too almost seemed like balls. He greeted them, pointed to chairs, and said, with a slightly significant glance at Mme. Serbois: “I was just going to write you to ask you to come in. I wanted to acquaint you with M. Vaudrec’s will. It concerns you.”
M. Serbois could not refrain from saying, “Ah! I was sure of it.”
The notary said, “I will read you the document. It is very short.” And taking up a paper he read:
“I, Paul-Emile-Cyprien Vaudrec, the undersigned, being of sound body and mind, do hereby express my last wishes.
“Since death can come at any moment, unexpectedly, I wish to take the precaution of writing my last will and testament, which will be deposited with my notary, Maître Lemaneur.
“Being without direct heirs, I bequeath my entire estate, consisting of securities amounting to 400,000 francs, and real property amounting to about 600,000 francs, to Mme. Clair-Hortense Serbois, unconditionally. I beg her to accept this gift from a friend who has died, as proof of his devoted, profound and respectful affection.
“Signed in Paris, June 15, 1883.
Mme. Serbois had lowered her head and sat motionless, whereas her husband was glancing with stupefaction at her and at the notary. Maître Lemaneur continued, after a moment: “Madame cannot, of course, accept this legacy without your consent, Monsieur.”
M. Serbois rose. “I must have time to think,” he said.
The notary, who was smiling with a certain air of malice, agreed. “I understand the scruples that make you hesitate; society sometimes judges unkindly. Will you come back tomorrow at the same time and give me your answer?”
M. Serbois bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
He took a ceremonious leave of the notary, offered his arm to his wife, who was redder than a peony and kept her eyes obstinately lowered, and he left the office with so imposing an air that the clerks were positively frightened.
Once inside their own house, behind closed doors, M. Serbois curtly declared: “You were Vaudrec’s mistress.”
His wife, taking off her hat, turned toward him with a spasmodic movement. “I?” she cried. “Oh!”
“Yes, you. No one leaves his entire estate to a woman unless …”
She had gone utterly pale, and her hands trembled a little as she tried to tie the long ribbons together to keep them from trailing on the floor. After a moment she said, “But … You’re crazy, crazy … An hour ago weren’t you yourself hoping that he would—would leave you something?”
“Yes—he could have left me something. Me—not you.”
She looked at him deeply, as though trying to capture that unknown something in another human being which can scarcely be sensed even during those rare moments when guards are down, and which are like half-open gateways to the mysterious recesses of the soul. Then she said, slowly, “But it seems to me that if—that a legacy of such a size would have looked just as strange coming from him to you, as to me.”
“Why?”
“Because …” She turned her head in embarrassment, and did not go on.
He began to pace the room, and said: “Surely you cannot accept?”
She answered with indifference: “Very well. But in that case there is no need to wait until tomorrow. We can write Maître Lemaneur now.”
Serbois stopped his pacing, and for several moments they stared at each other, trying to see, to know, to understand, to uncover and fathom the depths of each other’s thoughts, in one of those ardent, mute questionings between two people who live together, who never get to know each other, but who constantly suspect and watch.
Then he suddenly murmured, close to her ear: “Admit that you were Vaudrec’s mistress.”
She shrugged. “Don’t be stupid. Vaudrec loved me, I think, but he was never my lover.”
He stamped his foot. “You lie. What you say is impossible.”
She said calmly, “Nevertheless, it is true.”
He resumed his pacing, then, stopping again, said, “Then explain to me why he left you everything.”
She answered nonchalantly. “It is very simple. As you yourself said earlier, we were his only friends, he lived as much with us as in his own home, and when the time came to make his will he thought of us. Then, out of gallantry, he wrote my name because my name came to him naturally, just as it was always to me that he gave presents—not to you. He had the habit of bringing me flowers, of giving me a little gift on the fifth of every month, because it was the fifth of a month that we met. You know that. He almost never gave you anything—he didn’t think of it. Men give remembrances to the wives of their friends—not to the husbands—so he left his last remembrance to me rather than to you. It is as simple as that.”
She was so calm, so natural, that Serbois hesitated. Then: “Still, it would make a very bad impression. Everyone would believe the other thing. We cannot accept.”
“Then we won’t accept. It will be a million less in our pockets, that’s all.”
He began to talk the way one thinks aloud, without addressing his wife directly. “Yes, a million—impossible—our reputations would be ruined—too bad—he should have left half to me … that would have taken care of everything.” And he sat down, crossed his legs and played with his whiskers—always his behavior at moments of deep meditation.
Mme. Serbois opened her work basket, took out a bit of embroidery and began to sew. “I don’t in the least insist on accepting. It is up to you to think about it.”
For a long time he did not answer; then, hesitantly: “Look—there would be one way, perhaps. You could sign half over to me, by deed of gift. We have no children: it would be perfectly legal. In that way nobody could talk.”
She said, seriously: “I don’t quite see how that would keep them from talking.”
He lost his temper: “You must be stupid. We’ll tell everyone that he left each of us half: and it will be true. No need to explain that the will was in your name.”
Once again she gave him a piercing look. “As you like. I am willing.”
Then he rose and resumed his pacing. He appeared to hesitate again, although by now his face was radiant. “No—perhaps it would be better to renounce it altogether—more dignified—still—in this way nothing could be said. … Even the most scrupulous could find nothing to object to. … Yes—that solves everything. …”
He stood close to his wife. “So, if you like, my darling, I’ll go back alone to Maître Lemaneur and consult him and explain. I will tell him that you prefer this arrangement, that it is more fitting, that it will stop gossip. My accepting half shows that I am on sure ground, perfectly acquainted with the whole situation, that I know everything to be honorable and clear. It is as though I said to you, ‘Accept, my dear: why shouldn’t you, since I do?’ Otherwise it would really be undignified.”
“As you wish,” said Mme. Serbois, simply.
He went on, speaking fluently now: “Yes, by dividing the legacy everything is made crystal clear. We inherit from a friend who wanted to make no difference between us, who didn’t want to seem to be saying, ‘I prefer one of you to the other after my death, just as I did during my life.’ And you may be sure that if he had reflected a little, that is what he would have done. He didn’t think, he didn’t foresee the consequences. As you rightly said, it was to you that he always gave presents. It was to you that he wanted to offer a last remembrance.”
She stopped, a shade impatiently. “All right, I understand. You don’t have to do so much explaining. Now go to the notary.”
He stammered, blushing, suddenly confused. “You’re right. I’m going.”
He took his hat, and approaching her he held out his lips for a kiss, murmuring, “I’ll be back soon, my darling.”
She held up her forehead and he gave her a big kiss, his thick whiskers tickling her cheeks.
Then he went out, beaming happily.
And Madame Serbois let her embroidery fall and began to weep.