“I had an uncle, an American,--Uncle Maurice,--who has not been in France for twenty-five years; and the last we heard of him, he was living on fifteen cents a day in New York. Then we heard in a roundabout way that he was dead; but he had nothing to leave anybody.” “Very likely,” sighed Marsac. “An American and his money are soon parted.” The next moment, Fontaine believed that the last and greatest of misfortunes had befallen his friend; for Marsac, leaping up, began to charge about the room, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Your Uncle Maurice has died, and has left you a fortune! Huzza! What a glorious idea! Huzza for Uncle Maurice!” Fontaine, stunned at first, went up to Marsac, who was capering wildly about, and in a voice tremulous with apprehension, and himself deadly pale, said, “My dear, kind Marsac, be quiet, pray. You have taken our misfortunes too much to heart, and they have unbalanced you. Sit down awhile; I have some money,”--the poor lad had not a sou but the two francs,--“quite enough for several days.” It was piteous to see his weak pretences. He rattled the two francs in his pocket and tried to smile. Marsac, seeing the dreadful thought in Fontaine’s mind, stopped his whooping, and seizing Fontaine in his arms, cried out,-- “You honest little simpleton! Of course Uncle Maurice hasn’t just died and left you a fortune; but let the world think so, and see if our fortunes are not made! How would a paragraph like this sound in the papers: ‘We are happy to announce that Monsieur Auguste Fontaine, the brilliant young journalist, has inherited a fortune of’--let me see, it’s as easy to give you two million francs as one million--‘from his lately deceased uncle, Monsieur Maurice Fontaine of New York, the celebrated’--wine-importer, I should say; that’s a good decent business. I can work the paragraph up more; tell about your Uncle Maurice going against the traditions of his family in entering trade, and all that sort of thing. Trust me to get it up!” Fontaine was so delighted at finding Marsac was not crazy after all, that he could do nothing but hug him and say, “Marsac, I was so frightened when you began to talk so; and you may kill all my uncles and aunts, if you can find any to kill. But will--will this dazzling story be believed about Uncle What’s-his-name?” “My dear fellow,” replied Marsac, in high good-humour, “don’t you know there is a large section of the human race that goes about actually begging to be humbugged? Did you ever know a wildly improbable story started yet that wasn’t readily believed? And the more it is contradicted, the more it is believed. At any rate, it can’t do us any harm; nothing can harm us in our present straits.” “Well, if people should believe in Uncle Maurice,” began Fontaine, anxiously; but Marsac cut him short.