"Well, so a letter was brought in while we were at dinner, and my father opened and read it, and then he said to my mother: 'Your brother is dying.' She grew very pale. My uncle was scarcely ever mentioned in the house, and I did not know him at all; all I knew from public talk was, that he had led, and was still leading, the life of a buffoon. After having spent his fortune with an incalculable number of women, he had only retained two mistresses, with whom he was living in small apartments in the Rue des Martyrs. "An ex-peer of France and ex-colonel of cavalry, it was said that he believed in neither God nor devil. Not believing, therefore, in a future life he had abused this present life in every way, and he had become the living wound of my mother's heart. "'Give me that letter, Paul,' she said, and when she had read it, I asked for it in my turn. Here it is. _Monsieur le comte, I thinks I ought to lett you knaw that your brother-law, count Fumeroll is going to dye. Perhapps you would make preparations and not forgett that I told you._ _Your servant_, MELANI. "'We must think,' papa murmured. 'In my position, I ought to watch over your brother's last moments.' "Mamma continued: 'I will send for Abbe Poivron and ask his advice, and then I will go to my brother's with the abbe and Roger. Stop here Paul, for you must not compromise yourself, but a woman can, and ought to do these things. But for a politician in your position, it is another matter. It would be a fine thing for one of your opponents to be able to bring one of your most laudable actions up against you.' 'You are right,' my father said. 'Do as you think best, my dear wife.' "A quarter of an hour later, the Abbe Poivron came into the drawing-room, and the situation was explained to him, analyzed and discussed in all its bearings. If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the greatest names in France, were to die without the succor of religion, it would assuredly be a terrible blow for the nobility in general, and for the Count de Toumeville in particular, and the freethinkers would be triumphant. The evilly disposed newspapers would sing songs of victory for six months; my mother's name would be dragged through the mire and brought into the prose of Socialistic journals, and my father's would be bespattered. It was impossible that such a thing should occur. "A crusade was therefore immediately decided upon, which was to be led by the Abbe Poivron, a little fat, clean, slightly scented priest, a true vicar of a large church in a noble and rich quarter. "The landau was ordered and we started all three, my mother, the Cure and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.