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.