"As I expected," said M. Deshoulieres, with a grimace which the notary did not see. "Now for the inside, all gilt and satin." All gilt and satin it was: the notary was rapturous in his admiration. "It might have been in the upholsterer's shop yesterday," he said, in a fervour of enthusiasm. The finery struck the doctor as looking more desolate and melancholy in this uninhabited house than the most threadbare furniture could have done. The rooms stared unmeaningly at the daylight, as the old woman who lived there with her husband threw back the shutters, and caught off the covers. Every thing seemed new, gay, and heartless. One room upstairs was different from the others. It was richly but more simply furnished: little things about it appeared to resist the general cold formality of the house. It had a delicate paper, pictures, a pretty little alcove hung with muslin. "The room of mademoiselle," said the old woman, pushing back the _persiennes_, and letting in a flood of warm sunlight. M. Deshoulieres held back his companion at the door, and would not go in. Therese was right, he began to fear. There were desks, papers, letters, at the chateau, but no information about M. Saint-Martin. Every thing was carefully and methodically arranged: only this one item was wanting, which in M. Deshoulieres' eyes outweighed all the rest. Old Mathieu and his wife, who knew nothing of their master's death, were full of wonder, compassion, and, above all, anxiety about their own future. To them there were no dismals at Chateau Ardron, only a warm kitchen, plenty of firewood, a roof over their heads, a little monthly instalment of francs. Monsieur Moreau had dismissed all the servants soon after his wife's death, had shut up his grand chateau, and gone away with Therese. It seemed as if a fit of restlessness had seized him. The poor old people, who had no restlessness, wanted to be assured that they would not lose their home, and when they understood this, they cheered up again at once. M. Deshoulieres wondered whether M. Moreau had one mourner in the world. It seemed as if he had built his own prison-house, a wall of hard unloving words and deeds, in the midst of which he had died. The little notary was hard at work among the papers, tying up bundles, and sealing them, when M. Deshoulieres rang the bell for the old couple to answer his questions about Fabien. They knew even less than he expected. They had heard of him, without doubt, but he had never been at Ardron since M. Moreau hired them, and no one found it agreeable to mention his name when it enraged his uncle to such a degree. The notary, who had been glancing over letters, placed a couple in the doctor's hands. "They give no information, I fear; but I conceive it my duty to ask you to read every thing in which M. Fabien's name appears," he said with an air of profound caution.