And the man of those far-off days stood before my mind’s eye as the town of Nanthel knew him then, the surgeon already celebrated at thirty-five for the skill of his hand and the success of his bold methods, and who in spite of his fame, remained faithful to his native town--Dr. Frédéric Lerne, Professor of Clinical Medicine at the “Ecole de Médecine,” corresponding member of numerous learned societies, decorated with many divers orders, and--to omit nothing--guardian of his nephew, Nicolas Vermont. This new father whom the Law assigned me I had not met often, for he took no holidays and only passed his summer Sundays at Fonval. And even these he spent in work--ceaseless and secret work. On those days his passion for horticulture, suppressed all the week, kept him shut up in the little hothouse with his tulips and his orchids. And yet, in spite of the rarity of our meetings, I knew him well and loved him dearly. He was a sturdy man, calm and sober, rather cold perhaps, but so kind. In my irreverent way I called his shaven face an “old wife’s face,” and my jesting was quite misplaced, for sometimes he would turn it into an antique visage, lofty and grave, and sometimes into one of delicate mockery (“Regency” style). Among our modern shavelings my uncle was of the few whose head and face by their nobility prove their legitimate descent from an ancestor draped in a _toga_, and a grandfather clothed in satin, and would allow their scion to wear the costumes of his ancestors without putting them to shame. For the moment Lerne appeared to me decked out in a black overcoat rather badly cut, in which I had seen him for the last time--when I was setting out for Spain. Being a rich man, and wishing me to be one too, my uncle had sent me into the cork business as an _employee_ of the firm Gomez & Co. of Badajoz. And my exile had lasted fifteen years, during which the position of the Professor had certainly become better, to judge by the sensational operations he had performed, the fame of which had reached me in the depths of Estremadura. As for me, my affairs had come to grief. At the end of fifteen years, despairing of ever selling safety-belts and cork on my own account, I had just returned to France to seek another trade, when Fate procured me that of an independent man. It was I who won the lucky number for a million francs, the donor of which wished to remain _incognito_. In Paris I took comfortable rooms, but without luxury. My flat was convenient and unpretentious. I had the bare necessaries _plus_ a motor-car and _minus_ a family. But before founding a new family, it seemed to me the right thing to renew relations with the old--that is to say with Lerne, and I wrote to him.