"How nicely edited these English papers are!" said the kind doctor to himself, leaning back in a large leather arm-chair. Dr. Sarrazan had been talking to himself all his life as one of his diversions. He is fifty years old, with delicate features, bright eyes, clear and shining, wearing a pair of metal frame glasses, his appearance is both serious and amiable, making him look like a gentleman.This morning, although he was not very well dressed at the moment, he had already shaved and put on a white tie. In a hotel room in Brighton where he was staying, there were The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Daily News all over the carpet, on the furniture.Ten o'clock had hardly struck before Dr. Sarrazan had walked round the town, visited a hospital, returned to his hotel, and read the full text of a paper in the major London papers which he had the day before yesterday. Report to the International Health Assembly on "Blood counting".

In front of him, on a tray covered with a white tablecloth, was a perfectly grilled steak, a cup of hot tea and a few slices of buttered toast.This kind of toast is a must for British cooks because it is made of special buns from bakeries. "Yes," he repeated, "the papers of the United Kingdom are really well edited and impeccable! . . . The exposition of the thesis, all timely, truthful and appropriate." "This was said by Dr. Sarazan of Douai, a distinguished member in French. He began by saying: You will forgive me for speaking in French, but you will understand French, and if I speak English You don’t quite understand what I’m talking about…”

"Five columns of small print! . . . I don't know whether it's better in the Times or in the Daily Telegraph . . . it couldn't be more accurate or accurate!" While Sarazan was thinking this way, suddenly, the officer of ceremonies—for a person wearing a serious black suit, he dare not call him an “officer”—knocked on the door in person and asked if “Sir” was receiving guests... … "Monsieur" is an appellation that the British think they must treat all Frenchmen indiscriminately, just as they think they must address Italians as "Signier" and Germans as "Haier", otherwise it would be disrespectful.Besides, they might be right.There is no doubt that this invariable habit has its advantages, and it can at once indicate the nationality of each person.

Sarrazan took the business card handed to him.He was quite surprised that there were people visiting this place that he didn't know anyone. When he read the words on the small square piece of paper, he was even more surprised: Mr. Sharp, Solicitor 93 Southampton Road, London He knows that "Solicitor" means "agent ad litem" in English, or rather an intervention in the law, between a notary, an ad litem agent and a lawyer, that is, the former prosecutor. "What the hell can I have with Mr. Sharp?" he wondered. "Have I done something wrong inadvertently? . . . Are you sure he's coming for me?" he asked.

"Oh! yes, sir." "That's good! Ask him to come in." The ceremonial officer brought in a very young man, and at a glance, the doctor included him in the "skeleton" family. His lips are thin, or shriveled, his teeth are white and long, his sunken temples are covered by his shriveled and wrinkled skin, his mummy-like complexion, two squirrel eyes like augers, All this could not be more appropriate to call him "skeleton".His skeletal frame was hidden under a baggy coat with a large checkered pattern.In his hand he carried a patent leather travel bag.

The man came in, greeted him hastily, put his bag and hat on the ground, sat down uninvited, and said: "I am William Henry Sharp, Jr., a partner in Billows Green, Sharp & Associates... and you are Dr. Sarrazan? . . . " "Yes, sir." "François Sarazan?" "It's my scumbag." "The Douai?" "I live in Douai." "My father's name was Isidore Sarazan?" "Completely correct." "Then let's call him Isidore Sarazan." Mr. Sharp took a notebook out of his pocket, looked it up, and then said:

"Isidore Sarazan died in 1857 at the school district hotel at 54 rue Tarana in the sixth arrondissement of Paris. The hotel has now been demolished." "That's true," asked Dr. Sarrazan, with increasing astonishment, "but can you explain it to me? . . . " "His mother's name is Julie Longevre," M. Shire continued without hesitation. "She is a Paledic, the daughter of Benedict Langevore, and lives in Vorriol Lane. Died in 1812, that's how the municipality of the city records it... These materials are precious, sir, very precious! ... Hmm! ... Hmm! ... Besides, she was a member of the 36th Hussars Sister of Jean-Jacques Langevour, captain of the drum corps..."

"I must confess," said Dr. Sarrazan, amazed that such a man knew his genealogy so well, "you seem to know many things better than I do. My grandmother's maiden name was Longevre, but , for grandma, I just knew that." "About 1807, she left Bar-le-Duc with your grandfather Jean Sarazan. She married your grandfather in 1799. They went to Melun to make a home, and to work together. He took up the business of tinplate and stayed there until the death of Sarazan's wife, Julie Langewall, in 1811. They had only one child from their marriage, the father Isildore Sarazan. From then on, apart from finding out the date of your father's death in Paris, the clues of your family line have been cut off..."

"I can tie it," said the doctor involuntarily, captivated by the exactness of the statement, "my grandfather came to Paris to study for my father. My father aspired to be a doctor. In 1832, My grandfather died at Palaiseau, near Versailles. My father practiced medicine there, and I was born there in 1822." "You're the man I'm looking for," said Mr. Sharp. "You have no brothers or sisters? . . . " "No! I am an only child, and my mother died two years after I was born... But, sir, what do you want to talk to me about?..." Mr. Sharp rose to his feet.

"Sir Brea Joai Modulana," he said the name with the respect any Englishman owes to a title of nobility, "I am delighted to have found you, glad Be the first to pay your respects!" "This man is crazy," the doctor thought. "This is a common thing among the 'skeletons'." The attorney ad litem saw what he was thinking in the other party's eyes. "I'm not at all crazy," he replied calmly. "You are the only heir to the Baron Jean-Jacques Langelzur as far as we know. British subject, recommended by the governor of Bengal, made a baron. After the death of his wife Mrs. Gokul, he enjoyed the usufruct of her property. He died in 1841, leaving a son. The son is a fool , died in 1869 without heir or will. Thirty years ago the estate amounted to about five million pounds and had been placed in escrow under the supervision of the law. Jean-Jacques Longevity's foolish son lived almost untouched by interest on an estate which, in 1870, was estimated to be worth £21 million, or 525 million francs. According to The Privy Council, the Delhi Court, the Agra Tribunal, after all the estates, immovables, and securities were sold, all the money was deposited in the National Bank of England. Now, this sum amounts to 527 million francs, After you have presented your genealogical evidence to the court of the Department of Justice, all you need is a check to withdraw the money. I would like to entrust the banker Mrs. Trollope and Smith & Associates for you from this day. Withdraw, no matter how much you withdraw, you can..."

Dr. Sarrazan was dumbfounded.He didn't speak for a long time.Then, perplexed and unable to believe that such a dream was a fact, he asked aloud: "But really, sir, what grounds do you have for saying it's true? And how did you find me?" "Here's all the evidence," replied Mr. Sharp, patting the patent leather bag. "How I found you is perfectly natural. I started looking for you five years ago. Every year there are many uninherited Our firm's special business is to find the relatives of the deceased, or in our American legal language, it is called 'close relatives'. But, to be precise, we have been busy for Mrs. Gokul's inheritance. We have been searching for five years. We have investigated hundreds of families with the surname Sarazan, but we have not been able to find descendants of Isidore. I am even convinced that there is no Sarazan in France anymore But yesterday morning, when I was reading the report of the Health Assembly in the "Daily News", I was shocked to see the name of a doctor named Sarrazan whom I had never seen before. I hurried Looking through my notes and the thousands of transcripts we've collected on this inheritance case, I'm surprised to find that we've left out the city of Douai. I'm almost sure I did find a clue this time, so I hitch a ride The train at Wrighton. When I saw you coming out of the meeting, I was sure of it. You were a perfect picture of your great-uncle Longevre. You looked exactly like your great-uncle in a photograph we kept. Then This photo is based on the portrait of the Indian painter Sharanoni." Mr. Sharp took a photograph from his notebook and handed it to Dr. Sarrazan.The photo shows a tall, bearded man with a feathered turban on his head and a green brocade robe, looking intently at the commander-in-chief in the unique posture of a commander-in-chief in history when he gave the order to attack. you.In the background, billowing gunpowder smoke and cavalry charging into battle can be vaguely seen. "These materials will tell you everything in more detail than I can," continued Mr. Sharp. "I leave them to you, and if you will allow me, I will come back to you in two hours." While talking, Mr. Sharp took out seven or eight documents from the patent leather bag, some printed and some handwritten, and put them on the table, then he walked out, muttering: "Sir Brea Joai Modulana, I salute you." Dr. Sarrazan picked up the materials dubiously and began to read them. A quick glance over it was enough to show him that it was true, and to dispel all doubt in him.There is no hesitation in front of such materials. For example, one of the printed materials is as follows: Report to the Elders of the Privy Council of the Supreme Queen that there is no heir to the estate of Mrs. Gokul de Rachinana of Bengal Province. January 5, 1870 Subject matter: The estate of Mrs. Gokul de Razinara included several camels, forty-three bijals of arable land, houses, palaces, plantations, cottages and chattels, treasures, weapons, etc.The matter was brought before the Agra Civil Court and the Delhi High Court several times in a row.Facts have proved that Mrs. Gokul is the widow of Prince Luc Misur and the heir to her late husband's huge property.She remarried in 1819 to a Frenchman named Jean-Jacques Langevour.The Frenchman had served in the French army as a junior officer (captain of drums) in the thirty-sixth hussars until, in 1815, when the Loire garrison was disarmed, he was demobilized, and then sailed in Nantes, Came to Gal Honorary as Head of Merchant Marine Commerce.Then, he went to the interior of India, and soon won the position of instructor in the small indigenous army under the supervision of Prince Rikmisur.Since then, he has been on the rise until the official worship of the commander-in-chief, and, shortly after the prince's death, he was favored by his widow and took her as his wife.Because of his advice on colonial policy and his important help to the Europeans in Agra who were in crisis, the Governor of Bengal Province recommended Jean-Jacques Langjewall and Mrs. Gokul who had become British subjects. husband is a baron.Thus, the land of Bria Joai Modulana was granted fiefdom.In 1839, Madame Gokul died, leaving the usufruct of her property to Langewall, who died with his wife two years later.Langjwal had a son by marriage with an Indian noblewoman, but when he was very young, he became demented, so he was immediately placed under guardianship.Until the demented child's death in 1869, his property was kept in good custody.This huge inheritance has never been inherited.The Court of Agra and the High Court of Delhi have decided to put it up for auction, and at the request of the local government, we have the honor to present it to the Senators of the Privy Council for a decision..." Below is the signature. Besides this, there are copies of court decisions in Agra and Delhi, auction certificates, deposit slips from the National Bank of England, records of searches for the heirs of Langewall in France, a whole lot of information on the matter. The material quickly made Dr. Sarrazan no longer hesitate.He was rightly and unmistakably the "close relative" and heir of the Indian noblewoman.There was only one legal step between him and the 527 million francs deposited in the vaults of the National Bank of England, and only official birth and death certificates were required! Such a large windfall would excite even the calmest mind, and it is certainly impossible for a good doctor to remain completely indifferent to such unexpected and certain facts.However, he was not excited for a long time, he just walked around the room for a few minutes.Then he calmed down, blaming himself for the momentary agitation as a sign of weakness, and then he sat down in the armchair and fell into deep thought. Then, suddenly, he started pacing up and down again.But this time, there was a pure light in his eyes, and it could be seen that a kind of generosity, chivalry, and lofty thoughts were growing in his heart.He thought over and over again, brewing, perfecting, and finally, he made a decision. At this time, someone knocked on the door.Mr. Sharp is back. "I beg your pardon for my doubts," said the doctor earnestly to Mr. Sharp, "but I am convinced of them now, and thank you for your busy work." "A trifle . . . nothing to worry about . . . my profession . . . ," replied Mr. Sharp, "may I wish that Sir Briar would leave it to me?" "There is no doubt about it. I entrust the matter to you... I only ask you not to call me so absurdly..." absurd!The title is worth twenty-one million pounds!It can be seen from Mr. Sharp's expression that he thinks so, but he is very good at flattering, so he doesn't insist. "With all due respect, you are master," replied Mr. Sharp. "I am going back to London by train at once, and I am at your command." "May I keep these materials?" asked the doctor. "It's absolutely fine, we still have a copy." Dr. Sarrazan sat alone at his desk, took a piece of paper, and wrote: My dear boy, we suddenly have a huge, amazing, incredible wealth!Don't think I'm out of my head, but take a look at the two or three prints I've enclosed with this letter.You will clearly see that I am the successor to the baronetship of England or India, and heir to a fortune of more than half a million francs.The money is now in the National Bank of England.My dear Octave, I know how you feel when you hear this news.You understand as well as I do the new responsibilities such a fortune imposes on us, and the dangers to our sanity it may expose us to.I was only informed of this fact less than an hour ago, but the anxiety of such a duty has half-emptied the joy which I had at first convincingly aroused by thinking of you.Perhaps this change is predestined in our destiny... As ordinary scientific explorers, we are happy in our obscurity.Can we still do this in the future?Maybe it's impossible, unless...but I dare not tell you about an idea I've had in my head...unless this wealth becomes in our hands a new and powerful scientific instrument, a magical tools of civilization! ...we'll talk about that later.Write me back, tell me quickly what this great news makes you think, and pass it on to your mother.I believe that she is a sensible woman, and she will deal with this matter with calm common sense.As for your sister, she's too young for such things to drive her out of her head.Besides, her little head is already very strong, and even with all the possible consequences of this news I am telling you, I believe this sudden change in our lives will disturb her the least of us.Say hello to Marcel for me.He cannot be missing from any of my future plans. Father François Sarazan Doctor of Medicine, Paris School of Medicine Brighton, October 28, 1871 Dr. Sarrazan put the letter and several important materials into an envelope, and wrote the address: "Attended by student Octave Sarrazan, Central Polytechnic School, 32 Rue du King, Sicily, Paris." Then he picked up his hat and put on the envelope. Coat, go to the convention.After a quarter of an hour, this remarkable man stopped thinking about those hundreds of millions of francs.