“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.