“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,--