After all, it was rather ludicrous to come in this prosaic fashion upon the man whose absence had given rise to so many speculations. Max smiled to himself--a little sad smile with an aching heart--as he followed the polite waiter upstairs through a passage, into a room where two gentlemen rose to receive him. One he knew at once--the cure of Ardron. The other--Monsieur Fabien Saint-Martin. For the first moment I doubt whether he understood much of what was passing; he was looking at Fabien. A young man--for that he was prepared, but somehow it forced itself upon him strangely--tall, slight, with quick, dark eyes, and an expression that did not please him about the mouth and jaw. This was his first, swift impression; his next was that there was a marked restraint and stiffness about the greeting he received. The young man made no attempt to speak, after a ceremonious bow; the cure, who had been writing, resumed his seat at the table. Max said, with a slight flush on his cheek, and with another bow,-- "Permit me to offer you my very sincere congratulations on your return, Monsieur Saint-Martin. It is an event, the delay of which has discomposed us considerably." Alas, poor Max! How much, only he knew. "I should have been glad myself to have returned before," said M. Fabien, speaking in an abrupt tone. "_Parbleu_, M. Deshoulieres, inheritances do not fall from the skies in such a shower that this one should be a matter of indifference to me." "That I can suppose." "Nevertheless, it appears that I am not greatly indebted to you for your endeavours to make it known," continued the young man, with a disagreeable laugh. "It is well, perhaps, monsieur, that other friends have taken a deeper interest in the matter." "No one, monsieur, can have had so deep an interest in the matter as myself," said Max, restraining himself; but with a swift flash from his eyes. M. le Cure, with his very determined opinions on the subject, looking up from his writing at that moment, could not help feeling a disagreeable sense of contrast in the two--M. Deshoulieres standing there, erect and massive, with his beautiful head, and his calm, indignant eyes--Fabien pale, angry, restless. "That I can believe--in one sense," said the young man, sharply. M. le Cure thought it was time to interfere. "Permit me to offer you a chair," he said, rising and putting forward his own.