Some weeks now passed, but not in the happiness which might have been
expected when it was at least certain that Fontaine and Claire could
freely love each other. Old Duval had returned late, the night he had
driven with Madame Fleury to Paris, and his conduct since had been such
as to make his family miserable. Under pretence of having some repairs
made in the Passy villa, he had brought them all back to Paris in the
heats of May; and it was tolerably certain that this move was in order
to be nearer Madame Fleury. Claire was wretched at this idea; and
although, being a timid girl, she dared not question her father, she
had every reason to suspect his infatuation for the widow who had come
so near wrecking Fontaine’s life.
As for Fontaine, although he daily and hourly got the benefit of his
reputed two millions, all the money he made went like wildfire in
the effort to keep up the delusion of a great fortune. He spent his
principal, and the world thought he was spending his income. Besides,
he feared seriously the effect his deception might have upon Claire
when she found it out,--which she must, sometime or other. Then he
began to have a morbid apprehension of the real Uncle Maurice turning
up; and last and worst of all, he was now saddled with a reputation for
brilliancy founded upon the play, the speech, and the picture,--all
Marsac’s work, which had been ably sustained by the series of powerful
articles signed by him and written by Marsac,--which was simply
maddening. Fontaine, who was of an extremely honest and simple nature,
suffered agonies from this false reputation; but the embarrassed manner
and sickly smile with which he received compliments on his achievements
was taken for modesty; and he passed, therefore, as the most modest as
well as the most gifted young man in Paris.
As for Marsac and Delphine, they were tormented in a hell of their own
making. Each profoundly in love with the other, and each smarting under
the supposed contempt of the other, they grew sharper in their attacks
on love and marriage, and suffered accordingly.
One morning, Marsac happening to go to Monsieur Duval’s quite
early,--for they were now upon the most intimate terms at the
house,--he found Fontaine sitting alone in a little drawing-room
which communicated with the conservatory and overlooked the trees and
fountains in the Luxembourg gardens. The morning papers lay on a table
before him; but Fontaine, sunk in a deep armchair, was a picture of
misery. Marsac, seeing Fontaine’s gloomy mood, began jovially and
jauntily,--
“I say, old man, what a good time you must have had last night!”
[Illustration]
“Why?” asked Fontaine, sulkily.
“Because you are so blue this morning.”
“You would be blue too, in my place,” answered Fontaine, sullenly.
“Here I am, spending every franc I make in the pretence of a fortune I
haven’t got; and when I tell the truth to Claire, whom I love from the
bottom of my heart, she will hate me for the fraud I have practised
upon her.”
This view had not occurred so forcibly to Marsac before. He took a turn
about the room, and then said in an agitated voice, “Is it possible
that Uncle Maurice was not a happy invention?”
“Happy invention! Damn Uncle Maurice!” almost shouted Fontaine, burying
his head in the pillows of the great chair. “Marsac, you are the best
fellow in the world; but you have been just a little too clever this
time. Besides giving me a fictitious fortune, you have made me out to
be the most brilliant man in Paris; and I can tell you it is simply
killing me, trying to live up to the character. If that picture hadn’t
been so deuced good; if that speech hadn’t been so devilish funny; if
that play hadn’t been so damnably bright,--ah, hell and all its furies!”
Fontaine rolled about his chair in anguish, while Marsac sat silent and
appalled at the result of his own ingenuity.
“And,” cried Fontaine, desperately, dashing his hand to his forehead,
“suppose that infernal old Uncle Maurice of mine should turn up from
America?”
“No, no!” said Marsac, “that is impossible. No, no, fate has not such a
cruel blow in store for us. It is just as rational to suppose that the
other uncles and aunts I gave you should materialise and come to life
in Paris--”
[Illustration]
A knock at the door startled them both. It was an ordinary enough
knock, such as might precede a footman or a tradesman; but to Marsac
and Fontaine, whose nerves had been a good deal wrought upon in the
last few exciting months, it sounded like the crack of doom. Both
of them sat with pale faces, and neither could say the ordinary
words, “Come in.” But the person knocking came in, after a moment.
He was a little old man, a shabby little old man, clutching a rusty
travelling-bag in his trembling hands. He stood in the centre of the
room, looking about awkwardly and timidly. Marsac felt as if he were
frozen to his chair. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and
he could feel his hair rising on his head. Not Frankenstein, when his
monster came to life, could have felt more horror. Fontaine, with one
wild look, seemed inspired with the motion that was denied Marsac, and
darted into the conservatory.
The old man advanced, still holding on to his shabby bag. “I am told,”
he said hesitatingly, “that this is the house of Monsieur Duval, and
I would find my nephew, Monsieur Auguste Fontaine, here. The lackeys
below didn’t want to let me up: I suppose I am not so well dressed as
I ought to be. I am Auguste’s uncle, just from America. I am Monsieur
Maurice Fontaine.”
Had the arch-fiend appeared in person, with a tail and hoofs and horns,
and said calmly, “I am Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness, just from Hades,”
he could not have disconcerted Marsac more. He rose to his feet, but
found himself incapable of speech.
This, then, was Uncle Maurice! Like the foolish man who let the genie
out of the trunk, the apparition had grown and grown, until it was
now unmanageable. And here was the substance, the actual man of that
figment of Marsac’s imagination; here was Uncle Maurice! Marsac felt a
singular kind of acquaintanceship and even kinship with Uncle Maurice;
and through it all he had a dim sensation of pity for the poor old
man standing there, holding on apparently to all his few worldly
possessions, and looking so deprecating, so apologetic, so blankly
disappointed.
Uncle Maurice began to speak again, trying to smile, but his eyes
meanwhile filling with tears. “Perhaps I counted too much on this
home-coming; and--and--it’s ridiculous, you know, for a poor old man to
expect a very warm welcome. I haven’t had a single hand held out to me
yet, since I landed.”
A wave of pity swept over Marsac. Terrible as this _dénouement_ was,
wreck and havoc as it made, the old man’s disappointment touched him;
and Marsac had one of the best hearts in the world.
“My dear Monsieur Fontaine,” he said, advancing, and trying to speak in
a natural voice, “you shall not say that again. Here is my hand, and
I guarantee that Fontaine, who is my best friend, my brother in fact,
will not fail to welcome you. I have often heard him speak of you, and
in the kindest terms.”
“Did he?” asked the old man, delightedly grasping Marsac’s hand. “That
was good of the boy! I dare say he heard that false report that I was
dead.”
“He did,” answered Marsac, “and he put on mourning for you, and did not
go into society for several weeks.”
That seemed to overjoy the poor old man. “Good lad, good fellow! I’ll
not forget that. There’s no such proof of real respect. And you--What
is your name, may I ask?”
“Marsac,--and at your service.”
“Well, Monsieur Marsac, since you are so kind, tell me more about my
nephew. You know he is my only near living relative.”
“He is a noble fellow; and he is engaged to be married to the daughter
of the owner of this house,--a lovely girl, Mademoiselle Claire Duval.”
The old man seated himself, and with his precious bag between his knees
drank in eagerly Marsac’s every word. Marsac saw the advisability of
preparing Monsieur Maurice Fontaine for the state of affairs that he
must presently find out.
“When Fontaine went in mourning for you--which I am glad to see there
was no occasion for--”
“And I am glad too. Go on--”
“Some miscreant started the report that you had left him a fortune.
It got into the newspapers, and everybody believed it,--even Claire.
Fontaine--foolishly, I think--did not confide to her frankly how it
was; and he was telling me just now his distress at having to confess
his deception to Claire. She is a sweet girl, though, and I believe his
confession will not alter her affection in the least. I will go and
fetch Fontaine.”
Marsac went into the conservatory. There stood Fontaine, as white as a
sheet, and wild-eyed.
“Come in and see your uncle,” whispered Marsac.
“I can’t--I won’t,” answered Fontaine, desperately.
“But you must. The best and only thing now is to face the music. And,
besides, you would feel sympathy for the old man,--he is so humble, so
gentle, and seems so grateful for even the small kindness I have shown
him.”
“He has wrecked my life,” was Fontaine’s angry reply.
“Rubbish! you are twenty times better off for him. Come along;” and
Fontaine never having resisted Marsac in his life could not do so now,
and went obediently into the drawing-room to greet affectionately the
man whose very existence he conceived was utterly disastrous to him.
Uncle Maurice was charmed with the reception he got from Fontaine,
and immediately began joking him about Claire. “And she thought you
had a rich old uncle who had died and left you a fortune--ha! ha!” he
chuckled. “Well, perhaps, after all, you will be just as happy when the
truth is known.”
Fontaine could scarcely stand this; but luckily Uncle Maurice concluded
he would make himself a little presentable before being introduced to
Claire.
“I have some better clothes than these,” he said apologetically,
“though I haven’t them in my bag with me.”
“Never mind,” said Marsac, cordially; “go to our quarters, just around
the corner; here are my keys. Get anything you want,--linen, cigars,
liqueurs,--and come back very soon, so we can present you to Claire and
her cousin Delphine. We will wait for you here.”
“Let me assist you,” said Fontaine, trying to take the old bag.
“No, no, no!” cried Uncle Maurice, determinedly; “I’ve got to hold on
to that,--it has all my little savings in it.” And the old man went
off, promising to return in half an hour.
Left alone, Marsac and Fontaine avoided each other’s gaze, and said not
a word. Language could not express the depth, the height, the breadth
of the catastrophe that had befallen them. Yet they were undeniably
better off than if Uncle Maurice had never lived. After a long and
painful pause, Marsac spoke.
“You must confess at once to Claire; and I don’t believe it will change
her affection for you.”
[Illustration]
Fontaine had no time to reply, for at that moment Claire and Delphine
entered the room together. It was plain that they were distressed
about something, and Delphine’s first words were,--
“We are in very great trouble.”
“All is not bright for us, either,” gloomily replied Marsac.
“Ours is a very real trouble,” began Claire, half crying. “We have
found out that papa spends half his time with Madame Fleury. He writes
to her, and to-day came a bill for thirty bouquets in three weeks for
her. If he should marry her--oh, the thought is too dreadful!” and
Claire burst into tears.
Fontaine took her hand tenderly, and led her into the conservatory.
Marsac and Delphine were now left alone. Marsac for once was completely
unnerved, but he managed to hide it from Delphine.
“What do you suppose Auguste and Claire find to say to each other in
these tremendously long private interviews?” she asked, wishing from
the bottom of her heart that Marsac would show some inclination toward
long private interviews with her. “I have a great mind to interrupt
this one.”
“Pray, don’t,” cried Marsac, eagerly; and then with a sickly attempt at
a return to his old manner, he said, “Let them be happy while they can.
Soon they will be married, and then--”
A dismal shaking of the head finished the sentence.
Every word went like a knife to Delphine’s tortured heart; but not to
be outdone, she flippantly replied, “As far as those two go, Plato
might never have lived, and Socrates might never have died!”
Now, for a long time, ever since Marsac had known and loved Delphine,
the name of Plato had become peculiarly odious to him. He considered
that a large part of the misery he was enduring was directly to be laid
at the door of that philosopher, and he had often ardently wished
to himself that Plato and not Socrates had been forced to drink the
hemlock. He could not forbear saying bitterly,--
“Do you know, Mademoiselle, there are persons who loathe and hate and
despise and revile and scorn and contemn the divine Plato?”
Marsac’s tone of ineffable disgust when he said “divine” might have
enlightened Delphine; but it did not. “I am afraid our two friends in
the conservatory do not appreciate him,” she answered, smiling. “I dare
say Claire is asking Auguste the very same question that Eve asked Adam
in the Garden of Eden,--is she the only woman he has ever loved?”
It occurred to Marsac that it would be well to prepare Delphine for
what Fontaine actually was revealing at that moment; so drawing his
chair nearer, he said confidentially, “Mademoiselle, I can tell you
exactly what they are talking about at this moment. What would you
think if I were to tell you that Fontaine’s Uncle Maurice was not dead,
after all, but has just arrived at our lodgings, and will very soon
present himself in this room?”
Delphine’s mouth came open with astonishment, and her first question
when she had recovered from the shock of her surprise was, “And how
about the fortune?”
Marsac shook his head lugubriously. “I can tell you nothing. That
fortune is involved in the deepest mystery. There are indications of a
plot the most extraordinary you can conceive. I know nothing, except
that Monsieur Maurice Fontaine is alive, and is in Paris, and will be
here shortly.” And then, to divert her from so perilous a subject, he
said, “But we are consumed with anxiety regarding Monsieur Duval and
the Comtesse de Fleury. It will be terrible for you and Claire if she
succeeds in capturing Monsieur Duval.”
Delphine’s answer was artfully contrived: “If that dreadful woman
should succeed in marrying my uncle, this could no longer be a home for
me.”
Here was an opportunity at once for Marsac to declare himself, if
he had a spark of tenderness for her. The tenderness, amounting to
adoration, was there; but Marsac--the ready, the witty, the glib, the
daring--was silent and abashed in the presence of the master-passion.
His silence, which was really one of deep emotion, was naturally
misunderstood by Delphine. Just as he had nerved himself to take what
he thought a desperate chance, by telling her of his love, her face
hardened, she deliberately turned her back to him, and picking up some
fancy-work on the table, seated herself at it.
There was nothing left for Marsac but the newspaper which Fontaine had
dropped. He took it, and for half an hour no sound was heard except
the rattle of the sheets as they were turned. Delphine stitched in
silent anger and disappointment.
It seemed fated that all the persons whom Marsac and Fontaine
particularly did not wish to see at M. Duval’s house should turn up
that morning, for within five minutes of Marsac’s and Delphine’s latest
misunderstanding a footman appeared to announce another startling
arrival. The man usually maintained the stolid countenance of his
tribe, but on this occasion he wore a grin like a rat-trap. “M’sieu
Marsac,” he said, almost laughing in Marsac’s gloomy face, “here’s
a--person--”
“A _lady_, if you please,” proclaimed a loud voice, as Madame Schmid
marched in, shoving the footman unceremoniously out of the way.
Poor Marsac’s nerves were sufficiently unstrung by Uncle Maurice’s
arrival, and Madame Schmid’s seemed likely to finish him. But she was
such a good-hearted creature, and in spite of having, figuratively,
dragged Fontaine and himself around by the hair of their heads, had
washed and scrubbed for them so faithfully, that Marsac could not find
it in his heart to receive her coldly. As for Madame Schmid, Marsac’s
delightful impudence had won its way into her honest heart, and she had
come to do him a great service. Her errand not being a professional
one, she wore a gorgeous red bonnet, all flowers; a green mantle, all
spangles; a purple gown, all stripes; and, with a yellow parasol,
looked something like a bird of paradise.
“Here you are,” she cried, a broad smile on her handsome face. “Just as
impudent as ever, I warrant. If I get out of this room without being
kissed--”
Delphine, looking on in amazement, became pale at this; while Marsac
turned blue in the face.
“I perceive I am in the way,” murmured Delphine, in a scarcely audible
voice, and made for the door.
“Mademoiselle--I implore--” Marsac got this far when Delphine slammed
the door in his face.
“Is the young lady jealous?” asked Madame Schmid, delightedly.
“I am afraid not,” was Marsac’s dejected reply.
“Well, M’sieu,” began Madame Schmid, with an air of importance, “I have
come to tell you and that pretty boy Fontaine something you will like
to hear. In the first place, Madame Fleury is coming here this morning.”
“Charming! Ha! ha! Fontaine will be rapturously happy.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t laugh in that dismal manner. She is determined,
of course, to marry M. Duval; but she thinks, by coming to this
house, she can force Fontaine to give her money rather than betray
her presence to his _fiancée_. Well, I found this out,--no matter
how,--and I said this morning to Fleury--”
“To Fleury!”
“To Fleury. He is no more dead than you or I. He has been living at my
house for a month past. I said, ‘I won’t keep your secret any longer.
I’ll tell your wife that you are alive.’ Oh, he cried like a baby at
that.”
Marsac seized her hands, and could only cry breathlessly, “Go on! go
on!”
“It was this way. About a month ago Fleury came walking into my place
and asked for lodgings. I said, ‘Why, you were drowned.’ He said, ‘I
wasn’t.’ I said, ‘Your wife thinks so.’ He said, ‘I hope she will keep
on thinking so.’ I hadn’t the heart to betray the poor creature, so
I said nothing until I heard about this new move of his wife’s, but
then I determined to tell you; and I have him around the corner, in a
wine-shop, where he is crying and drinking; and you must come with me.”
Two minutes later Delphine saw, from an upper window, Madame Schmid
parading down the street, with Marsac gallantly holding the yellow
parasol over her red bonnet, and attending her as if she were a
duchess. That, then, was the woman Marsac loved!
Delphine, pale and agonised, returned to the drawing-room.
There came a rustle of draperies from the conservatory, and Claire
flitted in with Fontaine. One look at their happy faces told that Uncle
Maurice’s fortune had made no figure in their love affair.
“What do you think, Delphine,” asked Claire, with her hand still lying
in Fontaine’s,--“this foolish boy has not a fortune, after all; and he
has known it for some time, and dared not tell me. It seems that when
the report of his Uncle Maurice’s death came, some one started the
story in the newspapers about the fortune, and Auguste did not have
the nerve to contradict it. Besides, it might have been true, for he
had an Uncle Maurice in America. And this very morning Uncle Maurice
arrived in Paris, and was directed here to find Auguste. And Auguste
says the old man looks very poor and friendless, but cheery and glad
to get back to France; and dear, kind Monsieur Marsac was so good to
the old man, and made Auguste kind to him too. So he has gone to their
apartment to make ready to come and see us. I shall be just as nice to
him as I can be, and I shall make papa be the same.”
“Claire, you have the dearest heart in the world,” burst out Delphine,
generously forgetting her own misery; “and I love and respect you the
more for not caring whether Auguste has a fortune or not.”
“But with his talents,” answered Claire, proudly, “a fortune will be
his. We can live well enough on his pictures, his plays, and his
articles in the newspapers.”
Fontaine’s effort at a cheerful grin when this was said was piteous to
behold. Just then the footman again entered and handed him a card. One
look was enough. “It is Madame Fleury!” he cried. “Don’t let her up.”
But he was too late. Madame Fleury walked into the drawing-room on the
heels of her messenger and said to the servant, in an authoritative
manner, “Take my card to Monsieur Duval.”
Never had the gentle Claire showed haughtiness to any human creature
before; but when face to face with Madame Fleury, she drew her slight
figure up, and in a tone of quiet disdain said, “I think, Madame, that
I--my father’s daughter--have some rights in this house; and I forbid
my servant to take your card.”
“And I think,” suavely replied Madame Fleury, “that your father,
master of his house, has some rights here too; so--” A look at the
footman finished the sentence. The man went out with the card.
Claire, with a heightened colour, turned to Delphine, saying, “Shall we
withdraw?”
“By no means,” answered Delphine, coolly; “that would indeed be a
surrender.” They both therefore stood their ground.
Fontaine, who was glad to keep out of the mêlée, had prudently kept in
the background during this; but Madame Fleury would not let him rest
there.
“Monsieur Fontaine,” she asked in her smoothest voice, “do you remember
a certain document which we both signed, referring to the 15th of May?”
“I do, to my eternal sorrow,” was Fontaine’s reply; but before he
could say anything more, Monsieur Duval bustled in, looking flurried,
nervous, but elated with the elation of a stupid old man who finds
himself an object of interest to a handsome young woman.
“Good morning, Madame,” he cried. “I am delighted to see you.”
“It is more than your daughter and niece were,” answered Madame Fleury,
smiling.
“How is this?” sternly asked Monsieur Duval, wheeling around upon the
two girls. Claire, who dearly loved her father, could not utter a word;
but Delphine was equal to the situation.
“Of course we were not delighted to see her; and, uncle--pardon me--but
a man of your age should know better--”
“Monsieur Duval,” interrupted Madame Fleury, “your age is one of your
greatest charms in my eyes.”
“And yet,” coolly continued Delphine, “Monsieur Fontaine’s youth was no
objection to him. Anything between the cradle and the grave seems to
suit this--person.”
Monsieur Duval felt called upon to say reprovingly, “Delphine!” but the
next moment he weakened and muttered, “I wish Marsac were here. He is
the only one that can manage all of you!”
“I wish he were too,” said Madame Fleury. “I was just speaking of a
valuable paper I took with me to Passy that evening I was there. By
an unfortunate oversight on my part Monsieur Marsac got hold of it,
and tore it into bits, which he afterward tried to burn up. I saved
the scraps, but I was not able to put the charred pieces together.
Therefore I gave an expert one hundred and fifty francs to restore it.
He has just returned it to me, and I have not yet had a chance to open
it; but I will do it now, and I would like Monsieur Marsac to see how
much cleverer I am than he is.”
Madame Fleury produced an envelope from her card-case, tore it open,
and then stood petrified for a moment. “Why--it is--it is--” she
stammered.
“A bill of Landais the tailor,” maliciously put in Fontaine. “That is
what he tore up.”
[Illustration]
“And what you paid one hundred and fifty francs to have restored,”
Delphine chimed in.
“Madame Fleury,” said Fontaine, determinedly, “I have put up with this
hounding of me as long as I intend to. I shall to-day report it to the
police, and ask protection.”
Instead of flying into a rage at this, Madame Fleury executed a
masterly _coup_. Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she almost fell
upon old Duval’s shoulder, crying, “Monsieur Duval, will you stand by
and see me so affronted?”
“No, Madame Fleury,” sturdily answered Monsieur Duval, with his arm
half round her waist. “Never mind, Madame Fleury. If he reports you
to the police, Madame Fleury, he will have to reckon with me, Madame
Fleury. I know I’m old enough to be your father, but if you’ll marry
me, Madame Fleury, you’ll find me a great improvement on that rascally
count you married first; and you may be Madame Duval any day you like.”
At this a faint shriek burst from the two girls; and Fontaine, who
had not dreamed the old man capable of such folly, couldn’t repress
an exclamation. However, he took Claire’s hand, and said to her
tenderly,--
“Well, my dear one, the only thing for you to do now is to trust me,
and become my wife at the earliest moment possible.”
[Illustration]
Claire felt at that moment as if she had but one earthly dependence;
she clung to Fontaine, and weeping said, “I will marry you whenever you
like; for I cannot, and never will, countenance my father’s marriage to
this creature.”
“And even I would marry to escape living with this woman,” said
Delphine, in much agitation. “I would marry Monsieur Marsac, or commit
suicide even, rather than live in the house with her.”
Delphine was scarcely conscious of what she said, but a gleam of wicked
amusement in Madame Fleury’s eyes showed her that she had made a
dangerous slip.
Steps were heard outside in the hall as if of three or even four
persons; but when the door opened, only Marsac entered. He wore a
look of jaunty expectation, which seemed only to be increased by the
startling spectacle before him,--Madame Fleury holding on to Monsieur
Duval’s arm, the old man puffing, blowing, smiling, and frowning with
alternate spasms of rage and delight; Claire clinging to Fontaine and
in great distress; while Delphine, pale and defiant, stood alone in the
centre of the group. It was one of the most delicious moments of Madame
Fleury’s life.
When Marsac, raising his eyebrows, inquired, “What is this I see?”
Madame Fleury cut in before even Monsieur Duval could reply,--
“You see the betrothal between Monsieur Duval and me.”
Marsac’s wide, handsome mouth came open as if it were on hinges. His
enjoyment of the situation seemed intense; and Fontaine, Claire,
and Delphine were all astounded at his heartless amusement over a
catastrophe so ruinous to all of them. He only said, with a grin, after
surveying the scene for a minute or two,--
“And are you quite certain, Madame, of carrying out your plan?”
“Perfectly certain,” responded Monsieur Duval, pompously; “and she will
find her good old Duval a better husband than that rascally count she
married first and buried afterward.”
“But did she bury him?” asked Marsac, and paused to get the whole
effect of this. It was magical on Madame Fleury. She clenched her
teeth; her eyes flashed fire; but she held on stoutly to Monsieur
Duval, who grew white about the chops. Marsac, after coolly surveying
his audience, announced,--
“I have the honour of presenting to you Madame Fleury’s husband!”
With that, he threw the door open with a grand flourish, and in walked
one of the most weazened, cadaverous little men who ever stepped, and
behind him Madame Schmid’s rubicund countenance and rotund figure.
[Illustration]
Madame Fleury could not repress a cry of rage, and Monsieur Duval
dropped her arm as if it was red-hot. Fleury, who seemed not at all
abashed by his surroundings, looked calmly about. Monsieur Duval was
the first to recover his voice, and his disgusted exclamation was,--
“That creature a count!”
“I did not say he was a count,” corrected Marsac. “I merely said, by
way of making things agreeable, that Madame Fleury was a countess.”
Madame Fleury’s reply to this was one word, uttered in a tone of
concentrated hatred, “Wretch!”
“Is that all the thanks I get for restoring to you your long-lost
husband?” said Marsac in an injured voice. “Oh, the ingratitude that
is in this world!”
Fleury, meanwhile, seemed determined to assert himself. “I’m not a
count,” he said; “and that lady yonder,” indicating Madame Fleury,
“always turned up her nose at me; but I am not as insignificant as she
would have you believe. I have a standing offer from the medical school
of seventy-five francs for my skeleton as soon as I peg out.”
“I wish it were available at this moment,” cried Madame Fleury.
“There!” said Fleury, “I knew she wouldn’t be glad to see me; and I
told this gentleman so. But I don’t know that I am very glad to see
her. I haven’t had so peaceable and quiet a time since I was married as
when I was dead.”
Here Madame Schmid was bound to be heard; “I said to Fleury, said I--”
“Hold!” said old Duval, advancing, “I know this person. It is the
Baroness Schmid.”
“_Baroness_ Schmid! _Comte_ de Fleury! Oh, this is too comical!”
screamed Madame Schmid, laughing.
“Who wanted to marry Monsieur Fontaine,” continued old Duval,
determinedly.
“No, no!” cried Delphine, almost beside herself with jealousy. “She
wants to marry Monsieur Marsac.”
“_I_ want to marry that pretty boy, Fontaine!” bawled Madame Schmid,
finding her voice. “_I_ want to marry M’sieu Marsac! I want their
washing, that’s all. I’m a washerwoman.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” implored Marsac, “all can be explained at a
future day; but the fact remains that this is Monsieur Fleury.”
Old Duval’s face was a study during this, and he began to stammer,
“I--I--don’t think we can be married, Madame.”
The hopelessness of her situation was plain to Madame Fleury. She
prepared to depart from the house she had intended to preside over. She
gave a glance of speechless contempt around the circle, including every
member of it, and ending at Fontaine, who had taken no part in the
_dénouement_, but had watched it in amazed but delighted silence.
“Monsieur Duval,” she said in a hard voice, “I am truly sorry I cannot
marry you. As for Monsieur Fontaine I would only have married him for
lack of something better. The indignation of the two young ladies
against me seemed wholly devised to marry themselves off. Mademoiselle
Claire at once announced her willingness to marry Monsieur Fontaine;
while Mademoiselle Delphine took occasion to say that she would marry
Monsieur Marsac or commit suicide,--each a terrible alternative. For
Monsieur Marsac, I can say that he has concocted and conducted the most
extraordinary fraud ever perpetrated upon you. I am firmly convinced
there never was an Uncle Maurice, and the story of his death and his
fortune was a pure invention of Marsac’s, from beginning to end.”
“The story of his death, I grant you, I was mistaken about,” blandly
responded Marsac; “but as to there being an Uncle Maurice--”
Marsac stepped to the door, opened it, and Uncle Maurice, evidently
bubbling over with delight, entered, still holding on to the seedy old
bag.
“Allow me,” said Marsac, with a low bow, “to present to you all, ladies
and gentlemen, Monsieur Maurice Fontaine, late of New York, and from
henceforth from Paris.”
Madame Fleury seemed literally stunned by the sight of the little old
man, who, without noticing the sensation made by his appearance, went
all round the circle, shaking hands, not forgetting Madame Fleury, who
gave him her hand like a woman in a nightmare, and then he asked,--
“Where is my little niece?”
Claire ran up to him, looked smilingly into his face and said, “Here I
am, Uncle Maurice!”
The old man’s gratification was touching. He kissed her cheek, he
patted her hair and stroked her hand again and again; but he never let
go of his bag. Monsieur Duval gazed mechanically at Uncle Maurice,
while Delphine’s cordiality was second only to Claire’s.
“Ah,” cried Uncle Maurice, beginning and shaking hands all round for
the second time, “you can’t imagine how kindly I was received by these
two fine fellows. They didn’t mind my shabby clothes; they treated me
nobly. I sha’n’t forget it, my lads.”
Madame Fleury at this found her tongue. “He doesn’t look as if his
acquaintance would be much of an acquisition to his family,” she said
scornfully.
“Eh?” asked Uncle Maurice, and he seemed stung by her remark. “Well,”
he continued with an unexpected twinkle in his eyes, “that’s as may be.
I have in this bag a million francs’ worth of United States government
bonds,--a part of what I made in that noble country. I intended some
of it for my nephew, provided he received me kindly. I am proud and
happy to say he did so, when he thought I hadn’t a decent coat to
my back; so I’ll give him--let me see--I might as well do the thing
handsomely--half a million francs, so he can get married.” He opened
the bag and took out a parcel. “Monsieur Duval, you are a man of
affairs; you know what these are.”
The sight of the securities seemed to wake Monsieur Duval up. He
examined the parcel carefully, while Fontaine brokenly expressed his
thanks, and Claire kissed the old man with tears in her eyes.
“And, Auguste,” she cried generously, “Monsieur Marsac must share in
our good fortune; you know he has shared everything with you.”
“Indeed he shall,” replied Fontaine, clasping Marsac’s hand.
“Perhaps you don’t know,” said Madame Fleury to Uncle Maurice, stopping
in a somewhat precipitate flight toward the door, “that it was that
Marsac who started the story of your giving Fontaine a fortune.”
“Did you then--ha! ha!” Uncle Maurice seemed tickled at the idea.
“Yes,” replied Marsac, modestly; “when it was reported that you were
dead, I determined to give Fontaine every franc of your fortune; and I
gave you, sir, a very good character besides. I endowed you with every
virtue of a man and a gentleman; and it seems I was clairvoyant.”
Uncle Maurice laughed excessively at this, and handing a smaller roll
out of the old bag to Marsac, he said: “Well, I would like to have you
for a nephew too, for you were no less kind than my nephew, and with
less obligation; so there is a hundred thousand francs for you,--a mere
nest-egg. A fellow as clever as you can always make his way in the
world.”
[Illustration]
Marsac was overwhelmed by the old man’s generosity; and the silence, as
he stood grasping Uncle Maurice’s hand, was only broken by the slamming
of the door as Madame Fleury rushed out, dragging the unhappy Fleury
after her. As Monsieur Duval watched her exit, he said slowly,--
“Perhaps it is better, after all, that I am not in Fleury’s shoes.”
“A great deal better,” remarked Uncle Maurice, solemnly; “she’s too
much for you, Monsieur Duval.”
This great truth seemed to strike the old brewer with much force; the
more so when Madame Schmid said, pointing after Fleury’s departing
figure: “That man weighed near two hundred pounds when he married that
woman, and I believe he has lost not less than a pound a day since that
time; and you see what he is now. Well, I must be going. M’sieu Marsac,
when you and that pretty young lady”--pointing to Delphine--“are
married, please to give me your washing. The same to you, M’sieu
Fontaine, and your young lady.”
Marsac was so embarrassed by this speech that he remained perfectly
silent; but Fontaine escorted Madame Schmid to the door with profuse
thanks.
Old Duval still seemed dazed about the dead and the living Uncle
Maurice. At every mention of the suppositious Uncle Maurice the real
one would shake with merriment.
“So Monsieur Marsac made up the yarn,” said Monsieur Duval, dubiously.
“The noble romance, you mean,” replied Marsac. “My invention of Uncle
Maurice ranks with Orestes, with Pantagruel, with Don Quixote, with all
those splendid creations of the imagination that are as real to us as
you, sir, are,” to Uncle Maurice. “I endowed you with every virtue, and
I find, happily, that I have only done you justice.” Marsac folded his
arms, and assumed a look of triumphant virtue.
“What a clever fellow! what a very clever fellow!” chuckled Uncle
Maurice, delightedly.
“And I also invented two other rich uncles and an aged and decrepit
aunt,--all of whom were to make Fontaine their heir,” added Marsac; at
which Uncle Maurice nearly went into convulsions of enjoyment.
“I used to think,” said Monsieur Duval, “that Monsieur Marsac with his
plays and his paint-pots and his writing and his fiddling was a great
fool, but I have changed my opinion.”
“A thousand thanks,” replied Marsac, with dignity,--“not only for
myself, but for all the other fools who write or paint or fiddle, and
thereby add to the gaiety of nations.”
“Well, well, well,” said Monsieur Duval, hastily, “let us sit down and
talk things over.”
So he and Uncle Maurice and Fontaine and Claire formed a group and
sat down. Delphine, who had taken but little part in the proceedings,
but whose heart had swelled at Marsac’s triumph, walked toward the
embrasure of a window. Marsac followed her. The curtain fell behind
them, and they were as much alone as if in another room. Outside the
window the fountains plashed in the May air; the day was all blue and
gold. The trees in the Luxembourg gardens rustled softly; it was a day
for making love.
Presently Marsac spoke timidly: “Mademoiselle, I recall some words
of that she-devil, Madame Fleury. She said you had declared you would
commit suicide, or--or--marry me, if--Tell me, what did you mean?”
“Just what I said,” answered Delphine, with a beautiful blush.
“Did you mean that either fate was equally dreadful?”
“No.”
“Or, perhaps, that--I have a second thought, but I am afraid to mention
it.”
“Second thoughts are always best,” demurely replied Delphine.
And then there was a scene that would have broken the heart of a
Platonist. A few murmured words, a hand-clasp--and Delphine lay in
Marsac’s arms. A bird was singing in a tree outside the window, and a
bird also sang in their two happy hearts.
So deep was their ecstasy that they did not hear steps approach, nor
the curtain softly drawn, and they were wakened from their dream in
Paradise by a shout of laughter. Fontaine and Claire, Uncle Maurice
and Monsieur Duval, were laughing uproariously, and gazing at the two
apostles of platonic love, the relentless enemies of matrimony,--Marsac
with his arm round Delphine’s waist, and his handsome head almost
touching her bright hair. Old Duval grunted out one word,--
“Plato!”
“Let Plato go to the devil!” cried Marsac. “If ever I meet the old
scoundrel on the other side of the Styx, I promise to kick him all over
the lower regions for having deprived me for one hour of the sweet
knowledge of Delphine’s love.”
“Hurrah!” cried Uncle Maurice. “To perdition with the rascal Plato!”
“He is there already, I hope,” shouted Fontaine, dancing in his
delight. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Marsac loves and is beloved!”
“And I can tell you one thing,” interrupted Monsieur Duval, with
ponderous solemnity, “that Marsac is not such a fool after all!”
[Illustration]