The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled: "Money for milk," "Money for corn," "Money for cattle." The old man had evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before him, and at the bottom of which lay his medals and cross of honour. The gendarme laid his hand on the shoulder of the dead man and said: "You were just looking at your cross again, old comrade, were you, and then you fell asleep?" The two men put the money and the papers back into the cash-box, which the village-elder placed in a cupboard that stood open. This he locked, and took possession of the key. "There is something else," cried the gendarme suddenly; and he pointed to a folded paper lying on a little table by the door. "My last will and testament. To be opened immediately," was written on the document in the rather shaky but distinct handwriting of the turnpike-keeper. The "immediately" was underlined three times. Well, the injunction was plain enough; and the two officials did not hesitate to comply with it. They had the legal right to do so, and besides they were extremely curious. The paper was not even sealed up. It contained nothing at all extraordinary. Old Vogt desired in case of his death that the crippled neighbour who had sometimes helped him to look after the place should keep everything in order until his son returned from his military service. He was to have the money obtained from the sale of the milk as a reward for his trouble. Then the will continued: "Everything I have belongs, of course, to my dear son Franz. The expenses of my burying are to be defrayed from the money contained in the box labelled 'funeral money.' I wish to have a very simple funeral, and desire particularly that my son shall only be informed of my death after the ceremony is over, in case it should happen before February 3rd next year." "We shook our heads over that," said the village-elder to Franz. "It seemed so funny that he should have fixed upon a date." He coughed and went on in an embarrassed way. "Now of course we know that your father did not want us to hear of your--misfortune, at least as long as he was still above ground. Well, well, it has not been so bad after all, according to what your captain told me." The superintendent of the prison cut him short rather nervously: "That has nothing to do with the case, sir, has it?"