Chapter IV
Some weeks now passed, but not in the happiness which might have been expected when it was at least certain that Fontaine and Claire could freely love each other. Old Duval had returned late, the night he had driven with Madame Fleury to Paris, and his conduct since had been such as to make his family miserable. Under pretence of having some repairs made in the Passy villa, he had brought them all back to Paris in the heats of May; and it was tolerably certain that this move was in order to be nearer Madame Fleury. Claire was wretched at this idea; and although, being a timid girl, she dared not question her father, she had every reason to suspect his infatuation for the widow who had come so near wrecking Fontaine’s life.
As for Fontaine, although he daily and hourly got the benefit of his reputed two millions, all the money he made went like wildfire in the effort to keep up the delusion of a great fortune. He spent his principal, and the world thought he was spending his income. Besides, he feared seriously the effect his deception might have upon Claire when she found it out,—which she must, sometime or other. Then he began to have a morbid apprehension of the real Uncle Maurice turning up; and last and worst of all, he was now saddled with a reputation for brilliancy founded upon the play, the speech, and the picture,—all Marsac’s work, which had been ably sustained by the series of powerful articles signed by him and written by Marsac,—which was simply maddening. Fontaine, who was of an extremely honest and simple nature, suffered agonies from this false reputation; but the embarrassed manner and sickly smile with which he received compliments on his achievements was taken for modesty; and he passed, therefore, as the most modest as well as the most gifted young man in Paris.
As for Marsac and Delphine, they were tormented in a hell of their own making. Each profoundly in love with the other, and each smarting under the supposed contempt of the other, they grew sharper in their attacks on love and marriage, and suffered accordingly.
One morning, Marsac happening to go to Monsieur Duval’s quite early,—for they were now upon the most intimate terms at the house,—he found Fontaine sitting alone in a little drawing-room which communicated with the conservatory and overlooked the trees and fountains in the Luxembourg gardens. The morning papers lay on a table before him; but Fontaine, sunk in a deep armchair, was a picture of misery. Marsac, seeing Fontaine’s gloomy mood, began jovially and jauntily,—
“I say, old man, what a good time you must have had last night!”
“Why?” asked Fontaine, sulkily.
“Because you are so blue this morning.”
“You would be blue too, in my place,” answered Fontaine, sullenly. “Here I am, spending every franc I make in the pretence of a fortune I haven’t got; and when I tell the truth to Claire, whom I love from the bottom of my heart, she will hate me for the fraud I have practised upon her.”
This view had not occurred so forcibly to Marsac before. He took a turn about the room, and then said in an agitated voice, “Is it possible that Uncle Maurice was not a happy invention?”
“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—”
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.
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.
“Come in and see your uncle,” whispered Marsac.
“I can’t—I won’t,” answered Fontaine, desperately.
“But you must. The best and only thing now is to face the music. And, besides, you would feel sympathy for the old man,—he is so humble, so gentle, and seems so grateful for even the small kindness I have shown him.”
“He has wrecked my life,” was Fontaine’s angry reply.
“Rubbish! you are twenty times better off for him. Come along;” and Fontaine never having resisted Marsac in his life could not do so now, and went obediently into the drawing-room to greet affectionately the man whose very existence he conceived was utterly disastrous to him.
Uncle Maurice was charmed with the reception he got from Fontaine, and immediately began joking him about Claire. “And she thought you had a rich old uncle who had died and left you a fortune—ha! ha!” he chuckled. “Well, perhaps, after all, you will be just as happy when the truth is known.”
Fontaine could scarcely stand this; but luckily Uncle Maurice concluded he would make himself a little presentable before being introduced to Claire.
“I have some better clothes than these,” he said apologetically, “though I haven’t them in my bag with me.”
“Never mind,” said Marsac, cordially; “go to our quarters, just around the corner; here are my keys. Get anything you want,—linen, cigars, liqueurs,—and come back very soon, so we can present you to Claire and her cousin Delphine. We will wait for you here.”
“Let me assist you,” said Fontaine, trying to take the old bag.
“No, no, no!” cried Uncle Maurice, determinedly; “I’ve got to hold on to that,—it has all my little savings in it.” And the old man went off, promising to return in half an hour.
Left alone, Marsac and Fontaine avoided each other’s gaze, and said not a word. Language could not express the depth, the height, the breadth of the catastrophe that had befallen them. Yet they were undeniably better off than if Uncle Maurice had never lived. After a long and painful pause, Marsac spoke.
“You must confess at once to Claire; and I don’t believe it will change her affection for you.”
Fontaine had no time to reply, for at that moment Claire and Delphine entered the room together. It was plain that they were distressed about something, and Delphine’s first words were,—
“We are in very great trouble.”
“All is not bright for us, either,” gloomily replied Marsac.
“Ours is a very real trouble,” began Claire, half crying. “We have found out that papa spends half his time with Madame Fleury. He writes to her, and to-day came a bill for thirty bouquets in three weeks for her. If he should marry her—oh, the thought is too dreadful!” and Claire burst into tears.
Fontaine took her hand tenderly, and led her into the conservatory.
Marsac and Delphine were now left alone. Marsac for once was completely unnerved, but he managed to hide it from Delphine.
“What do you suppose Auguste and Claire find to say to each other in these tremendously long private interviews?” she asked, wishing from the bottom of her heart that Marsac would show some inclination toward long private interviews with her. “I have a great mind to interrupt this one.”
“Pray, don’t,” cried Marsac, eagerly; and then with a sickly attempt at a return to his old manner, he said, “Let them be happy while they can. Soon they will be married, and then—”
A dismal shaking of the head finished the sentence.
Every word went like a knife to Delphine’s tortured heart; but not to be outdone, she flippantly replied, “As far as those two go, Plato might never have lived, and Socrates might never have died!”
Now, for a long time, ever since Marsac had known and loved Delphine, the name of Plato had become peculiarly odious to him. He considered that a large part of the misery he was enduring was directly to be laid at the door of that philosopher, and he had often ardently wished to himself that Plato and not Socrates had been forced to drink the hemlock. He could not forbear saying bitterly,—
“Do you know, Mademoiselle, there are persons who loathe and hate and despise and revile and scorn and contemn the divine Plato?”
Marsac’s tone of ineffable disgust when he said “divine” might have enlightened Delphine; but it did not. “I am afraid our two friends in the conservatory do not appreciate him,” she answered, smiling. “I dare say Claire is asking Auguste the very same question that Eve asked Adam in the Garden of Eden,—is she the only woman he has ever loved?”
It occurred to Marsac that it would be well to prepare Delphine for what Fontaine actually was revealing at that moment; so drawing his chair nearer, he said confidentially, “Mademoiselle, I can tell you exactly what they are talking about at this moment. What would you think if I were to tell you that Fontaine’s Uncle Maurice was not dead, after all, but has just arrived at our lodgings, and will very soon present himself in this room?”
Delphine’s mouth came open with astonishment, and her first question when she had recovered from the shock of her surprise was, “And how about the fortune?”
Marsac shook his head lugubriously. “I can tell you nothing. That fortune is involved in the deepest mystery. There are indications of a plot the most extraordinary you can conceive. I know nothing, except that Monsieur Maurice Fontaine is alive, and is in Paris, and will be here shortly.” And then, to divert her from so perilous a subject, he said, “But we are consumed with anxiety regarding Monsieur Duval and the Comtesse de Fleury. It will be terrible for you and Claire if she succeeds in capturing Monsieur Duval.”
Delphine’s answer was artfully contrived: “If that dreadful woman should succeed in marrying my uncle, this could no longer be a home for me.”
Here was an opportunity at once for Marsac to declare himself, if he had a spark of tenderness for her. The tenderness, amounting to adoration, was there; but Marsac—the ready, the witty, the glib, the daring—was silent and abashed in the presence of the master-passion. His silence, which was really one of deep emotion, was naturally misunderstood by Delphine. Just as he had nerved himself to take what he thought a desperate chance, by telling her of his love, her face hardened, she deliberately turned her back to him, and picking up some fancy-work on the table, seated herself at it.
There was nothing left for Marsac but the newspaper which Fontaine had dropped. He took it, and for half an hour no sound was heard except the rattle of the sheets as they were turned. Delphine stitched in silent anger and disappointment.
It seemed fated that all the persons whom Marsac and Fontaine particularly did not wish to see at M. Duval’s house should turn up that morning, for within five minutes of Marsac’s and Delphine’s latest misunderstanding a footman appeared to announce another startling arrival. The man usually maintained the stolid countenance of his tribe, but on this occasion he wore a grin like a rat-trap. “M’sieu Marsac,” he said, almost laughing in Marsac’s gloomy face, “here’s a—person—”
“A lady, if you please,” proclaimed a loud voice, as Madame Schmid marched in, shoving the footman unceremoniously out of the way.
Poor Marsac’s nerves were sufficiently unstrung by Uncle Maurice’s arrival, and Madame Schmid’s seemed likely to finish him. But she was such a good-hearted creature, and in spite of having, figuratively, dragged Fontaine and himself around by the hair of their heads, had washed and scrubbed for them so faithfully, that Marsac could not find it in his heart to receive her coldly. As for Madame Schmid, Marsac’s delightful impudence had won its way into her honest heart, and she had come to do him a great service. Her errand not being a professional one, she wore a gorgeous red bonnet, all flowers; a green mantle, all spangles; a purple gown, all stripes; and, with a yellow parasol, looked something like a bird of paradise.
“Here you are,” she cried, a broad smile on her handsome face. “Just as impudent as ever, I warrant. If I get out of this room without being kissed—”
Delphine, looking on in amazement, became pale at this; while Marsac turned blue in the face.
“I perceive I am in the way,” murmured Delphine, in a scarcely audible voice, and made for the door.
“Mademoiselle—I implore—” Marsac got this far when Delphine slammed the door in his face.
“Is the young lady jealous?” asked Madame Schmid, delightedly.
“I am afraid not,” was Marsac’s dejected reply.
“Well, M’sieu,” began Madame Schmid, with an air of importance, “I have come to tell you and that pretty boy Fontaine something you will like to hear. In the first place, Madame Fleury is coming here this morning.”
“Charming! Ha! ha! Fontaine will be rapturously happy.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t laugh in that dismal manner. She is determined, of course, to marry M. Duval; but she thinks, by coming to this house, she can force Fontaine to give her money rather than betray her presence to his fiancée. Well, I found this out,—no matter how,—and I said this morning to Fleury—”
“To Fleury!”
“To Fleury. He is no more dead than you or I. He has been living at my house for a month past. I said, ‘I won’t keep your secret any longer. I’ll tell your wife that you are alive.’ Oh, he cried like a baby at that.”
Marsac seized her hands, and could only cry breathlessly, “Go on! go on!”
“It was this way. About a month ago Fleury came walking into my place and asked for lodgings. I said, ‘Why, you were drowned.’ He said, ‘I wasn’t.’ I said, ‘Your wife thinks so.’ He said, ‘I hope she will keep on thinking so.’ I hadn’t the heart to betray the poor creature, so I said nothing until I heard about this new move of his wife’s, but then I determined to tell you; and I have him around the corner, in a wine-shop, where he is crying and drinking; and you must come with me.”
Two minutes later Delphine saw, from an upper window, Madame Schmid parading down the street, with Marsac gallantly holding the yellow parasol over her red bonnet, and attending her as if she were a duchess. That, then, was the woman Marsac loved!
Delphine, pale and agonised, returned to the drawing-room.
There came a rustle of draperies from the conservatory, and Claire flitted in with Fontaine. One look at their happy faces told that Uncle Maurice’s fortune had made no figure in their love affair.
“What do you think, Delphine,” asked Claire, with her hand still lying in Fontaine’s,—“this foolish boy has not a fortune, after all; and he has known it for some time, and dared not tell me. It seems that when the report of his Uncle Maurice’s death came, some one started the story in the newspapers about the fortune, and Auguste did not have the nerve to contradict it. Besides, it might have been true, for he had an Uncle Maurice in America. And this very morning Uncle Maurice arrived in Paris, and was directed here to find Auguste. And Auguste says the old man looks very poor and friendless, but cheery and glad to get back to France; and dear, kind Monsieur Marsac was so good to the old man, and made Auguste kind to him too. So he has gone to their apartment to make ready to come and see us. I shall be just as nice to him as I can be, and I shall make papa be the same.”
“Claire, you have the dearest heart in the world,” burst out Delphine, generously forgetting her own misery; “and I love and respect you the more for not caring whether Auguste has a fortune or not.”
“But with his talents,” answered Claire, proudly, “a fortune will be his. We can live well enough on his pictures, his plays, and his articles in the newspapers.”
Fontaine’s effort at a cheerful grin when this was said was piteous to behold. Just then the footman again entered and handed him a card. One look was enough. “It is Madame Fleury!” he cried. “Don’t let her up.”
But he was too late. Madame Fleury walked into the drawing-room on the heels of her messenger and said to the servant, in an authoritative manner, “Take my card to Monsieur Duval.”
Never had the gentle Claire showed haughtiness to any human creature before; but when face to face with Madame Fleury, she drew her slight figure up, and in a tone of quiet disdain said, “I think, Madame, that I—my father’s daughter—have some rights in this house; and I forbid my servant to take your card.”
“And I think,” suavely replied Madame Fleury, “that your father, master of his house, has some rights here too; so—” A look at the footman finished the sentence. The man went out with the card.
Claire, with a heightened colour, turned to Delphine, saying, “Shall we withdraw?”
“By no means,” answered Delphine, coolly; “that would indeed be a surrender.” They both therefore stood their ground.
Fontaine, who was glad to keep out of the mêlée, had prudently kept in the background during this; but Madame Fleury would not let him rest there.
“Monsieur Fontaine,” she asked in her smoothest voice, “do you remember a certain document which we both signed, referring to the 15th of May?”
“I do, to my eternal sorrow,” was Fontaine’s reply; but before he could say anything more, Monsieur Duval bustled in, looking flurried, nervous, but elated with the elation of a stupid old man who finds himself an object of interest to a handsome young woman.
“Good morning, Madame,” he cried. “I am delighted to see you.”
“It is more than your daughter and niece were,” answered Madame Fleury, smiling.
“How is this?” sternly asked Monsieur Duval, wheeling around upon the two girls. Claire, who dearly loved her father, could not utter a word; but Delphine was equal to the situation.
“Of course we were not delighted to see her; and, uncle—pardon me—but a man of your age should know better—”
“Monsieur Duval,” interrupted Madame Fleury, “your age is one of your greatest charms in my eyes.”
“And yet,” coolly continued Delphine, “Monsieur Fontaine’s youth was no objection to him. Anything between the cradle and the grave seems to suit this—person.”
Monsieur Duval felt called upon to say reprovingly, “Delphine!” but the next moment he weakened and muttered, “I wish Marsac were here. He is the only one that can manage all of you!”
“I wish he were too,” said Madame Fleury. “I was just speaking of a valuable paper I took with me to Passy that evening I was there. By an unfortunate oversight on my part Monsieur Marsac got hold of it, and tore it into bits, which he afterward tried to burn up. I saved the scraps, but I was not able to put the charred pieces together. Therefore I gave an expert one hundred and fifty francs to restore it. He has just returned it to me, and I have not yet had a chance to open it; but I will do it now, and I would like Monsieur Marsac to see how much cleverer I am than he is.”
Madame Fleury produced an envelope from her card-case, tore it open, and then stood petrified for a moment. “Why—it is—it is—” she stammered.
“A bill of Landais the tailor,” maliciously put in Fontaine. “That is what he tore up.”
“And what you paid one hundred and fifty francs to have restored,” Delphine chimed in.
“Madame Fleury,” said Fontaine, determinedly, “I have put up with this hounding of me as long as I intend to. I shall to-day report it to the police, and ask protection.”
Instead of flying into a rage at this, Madame Fleury executed a masterly coup. Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she almost fell upon old Duval’s shoulder, crying, “Monsieur Duval, will you stand by and see me so affronted?”
“No, Madame Fleury,” sturdily answered Monsieur Duval, with his arm half round her waist. “Never mind, Madame Fleury. If he reports you to the police, Madame Fleury, he will have to reckon with me, Madame Fleury. I know I’m old enough to be your father, but if you’ll marry me, Madame Fleury, you’ll find me a great improvement on that rascally count you married first; and you may be Madame Duval any day you like.”
At this a faint shriek burst from the two girls; and Fontaine, who had not dreamed the old man capable of such folly, couldn’t repress an exclamation. However, he took Claire’s hand, and said to her tenderly,—
“Well, my dear one, the only thing for you to do now is to trust me, and become my wife at the earliest moment possible.”
Claire felt at that moment as if she had but one earthly dependence; she clung to Fontaine, and weeping said, “I will marry you whenever you like; for I cannot, and never will, countenance my father’s marriage to this creature.”
“And even I would marry to escape living with this woman,” said Delphine, in much agitation. “I would marry Monsieur Marsac, or commit suicide even, rather than live in the house with her.”
Delphine was scarcely conscious of what she said, but a gleam of wicked amusement in Madame Fleury’s eyes showed her that she had made a dangerous slip.
Steps were heard outside in the hall as if of three or even four persons; but when the door opened, only Marsac entered. He wore a look of jaunty expectation, which seemed only to be increased by the startling spectacle before him,—Madame Fleury holding on to Monsieur Duval’s arm, the old man puffing, blowing, smiling, and frowning with alternate spasms of rage and delight; Claire clinging to Fontaine and in great distress; while Delphine, pale and defiant, stood alone in the centre of the group. It was one of the most delicious moments of Madame Fleury’s life.
When Marsac, raising his eyebrows, inquired, “What is this I see?” Madame Fleury cut in before even Monsieur Duval could reply,—
“You see the betrothal between Monsieur Duval and me.”
Marsac’s wide, handsome mouth came open as if it were on hinges. His enjoyment of the situation seemed intense; and Fontaine, Claire, and Delphine were all astounded at his heartless amusement over a catastrophe so ruinous to all of them. He only said, with a grin, after surveying the scene for a minute or two,—
“And are you quite certain, Madame, of carrying out your plan?”
“Perfectly certain,” responded Monsieur Duval, pompously; “and she will find her good old Duval a better husband than that rascally count she married first and buried afterward.”
“But did she bury him?” asked Marsac, and paused to get the whole effect of this. It was magical on Madame Fleury. She clenched her teeth; her eyes flashed fire; but she held on stoutly to Monsieur Duval, who grew white about the chops. Marsac, after coolly surveying his audience, announced,—
“I have the honour of presenting to you Madame Fleury’s husband!”
With that, he threw the door open with a grand flourish, and in walked one of the most weazened, cadaverous little men who ever stepped, and behind him Madame Schmid’s rubicund countenance and rotund figure.
Madame Fleury could not repress a cry of rage, and Monsieur Duval dropped her arm as if it was red-hot. Fleury, who seemed not at all abashed by his surroundings, looked calmly about. Monsieur Duval was the first to recover his voice, and his disgusted exclamation was,—
“That creature a count!”
“I did not say he was a count,” corrected Marsac. “I merely said, by way of making things agreeable, that Madame Fleury was a countess.”
Madame Fleury’s reply to this was one word, uttered in a tone of concentrated hatred, “Wretch!”
“Is that all the thanks I get for restoring to you your long-lost husband?” said Marsac in an injured voice. “Oh, the ingratitude that is in this world!”
Fleury, meanwhile, seemed determined to assert himself. “I’m not a count,” he said; “and that lady yonder,” indicating Madame Fleury, “always turned up her nose at me; but I am not as insignificant as she would have you believe. I have a standing offer from the medical school of seventy-five francs for my skeleton as soon as I peg out.”
“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,—
“Where is my little niece?”
Claire ran up to him, looked smilingly into his face and said, “Here I am, Uncle Maurice!”
The old man’s gratification was touching. He kissed her cheek, he patted her hair and stroked her hand again and again; but he never let go of his bag. Monsieur Duval gazed mechanically at Uncle Maurice, while Delphine’s cordiality was second only to Claire’s.
“Ah,” cried Uncle Maurice, beginning and shaking hands all round for the second time, “you can’t imagine how kindly I was received by these two fine fellows. They didn’t mind my shabby clothes; they treated me nobly. I sha’n’t forget it, my lads.”
Madame Fleury at this found her tongue. “He doesn’t look as if his acquaintance would be much of an acquisition to his family,” she said scornfully.
“Eh?” asked Uncle Maurice, and he seemed stung by her remark. “Well,” he continued with an unexpected twinkle in his eyes, “that’s as may be. I have in this bag a million francs’ worth of United States government bonds,—a part of what I made in that noble country. I intended some of it for my nephew, provided he received me kindly. I am proud and happy to say he did so, when he thought I hadn’t a decent coat to my back; so I’ll give him—let me see—I might as well do the thing handsomely—half a million francs, so he can get married.” He opened the bag and took out a parcel. “Monsieur Duval, you are a man of affairs; you know what these are.”
The sight of the securities seemed to wake Monsieur Duval up. He examined the parcel carefully, while Fontaine brokenly expressed his thanks, and Claire kissed the old man with tears in her eyes.
“And, Auguste,” she cried generously, “Monsieur Marsac must share in our good fortune; you know he has shared everything with you.”
“Indeed he shall,” replied Fontaine, clasping Marsac’s hand.
“Perhaps you don’t know,” said Madame Fleury to Uncle Maurice, stopping in a somewhat precipitate flight toward the door, “that it was that Marsac who started the story of your giving Fontaine a fortune.”
“Did you then—ha! ha!” Uncle Maurice seemed tickled at the idea.
“Yes,” replied Marsac, modestly; “when it was reported that you were dead, I determined to give Fontaine every franc of your fortune; and I gave you, sir, a very good character besides. I endowed you with every virtue of a man and a gentleman; and it seems I was clairvoyant.”
Uncle Maurice laughed excessively at this, and handing a smaller roll out of the old bag to Marsac, he said: “Well, I would like to have you for a nephew too, for you were no less kind than my nephew, and with less obligation; so there is a hundred thousand francs for you,—a mere nest-egg. A fellow as clever as you can always make his way in the world.”
Marsac was overwhelmed by the old man’s generosity; and the silence, as he stood grasping Uncle Maurice’s hand, was only broken by the slamming of the door as Madame Fleury rushed out, dragging the unhappy Fleury after her. As Monsieur Duval watched her exit, he said slowly,—
“Perhaps it is better, after all, that I am not in Fleury’s shoes.”
“A great deal better,” remarked Uncle Maurice, solemnly; “she’s too much for you, Monsieur Duval.”
This great truth seemed to strike the old brewer with much force; the more so when Madame Schmid said, pointing after Fleury’s departing figure: “That man weighed near two hundred pounds when he married that woman, and I believe he has lost not less than a pound a day since that time; and you see what he is now. Well, I must be going. M’sieu Marsac, when you and that pretty young lady”—pointing to Delphine—“are married, please to give me your washing. The same to you, M’sieu Fontaine, and your young lady.”
Marsac was so embarrassed by this speech that he remained perfectly silent; but Fontaine escorted Madame Schmid to the door with profuse thanks.
Old Duval still seemed dazed about the dead and the living Uncle Maurice. At every mention of the suppositious Uncle Maurice the real one would shake with merriment.
“So Monsieur Marsac made up the yarn,” said Monsieur Duval, dubiously.
“The noble romance, you mean,” replied Marsac. “My invention of Uncle Maurice ranks with Orestes, with Pantagruel, with Don Quixote, with all those splendid creations of the imagination that are as real to us as you, sir, are,” to Uncle Maurice. “I endowed you with every virtue, and I find, happily, that I have only done you justice.” Marsac folded his arms, and assumed a look of triumphant virtue.
“What a clever fellow! what a very clever fellow!” chuckled Uncle Maurice, delightedly.
“And I also invented two other rich uncles and an aged and decrepit aunt,—all of whom were to make Fontaine their heir,” added Marsac; at which Uncle Maurice nearly went into convulsions of enjoyment.
“I used to think,” said Monsieur Duval, “that Monsieur Marsac with his plays and his paint-pots and his writing and his fiddling was a great fool, but I have changed my opinion.”
“A thousand thanks,” replied Marsac, with dignity,—“not only for myself, but for all the other fools who write or paint or fiddle, and thereby add to the gaiety of nations.”
“Well, well, well,” said Monsieur Duval, hastily, “let us sit down and talk things over.”
So he and Uncle Maurice and Fontaine and Claire formed a group and sat down. Delphine, who had taken but little part in the proceedings, but whose heart had swelled at Marsac’s triumph, walked toward the embrasure of a window. Marsac followed her. The curtain fell behind them, and they were as much alone as if in another room. Outside the window the fountains plashed in the May air; the day was all blue and gold. The trees in the Luxembourg gardens rustled softly; it was a day for making love.
Presently Marsac spoke timidly: “Mademoiselle, I recall some words of that she-devil, Madame Fleury. She said you had declared you would commit suicide, or—or—marry me, if—Tell me, what did you mean?”
“Just what I said,” answered Delphine, with a beautiful blush.
“Did you mean that either fate was equally dreadful?”
“No.”
“Or, perhaps, that—I have a second thought, but I am afraid to mention it.”
“Second thoughts are always best,” demurely replied Delphine.
And then there was a scene that would have broken the heart of a Platonist. A few murmured words, a hand-clasp—and Delphine lay in Marsac’s arms. A bird was singing in a tree outside the window, and a bird also sang in their two happy hearts.
So deep was their ecstasy that they did not hear steps approach, nor the curtain softly drawn, and they were wakened from their dream in Paradise by a shout of laughter. Fontaine and Claire, Uncle Maurice and Monsieur Duval, were laughing uproariously, and gazing at the two apostles of platonic love, the relentless enemies of matrimony,—Marsac with his arm round Delphine’s waist, and his handsome head almost touching her bright hair. Old Duval grunted out one word,—
“Plato!”
“Let Plato go to the devil!” cried Marsac. “If ever I meet the old scoundrel on the other side of the Styx, I promise to kick him all over the lower regions for having deprived me for one hour of the sweet knowledge of Delphine’s love.”
“Hurrah!” cried Uncle Maurice. “To perdition with the rascal Plato!”
“He is there already, I hope,” shouted Fontaine, dancing in his delight. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Marsac loves and is beloved!”
“And I can tell you one thing,” interrupted Monsieur Duval, with ponderous solemnity, “that Marsac is not such a fool after all!”