"Just so! And is not a power a great pa.s.sion that will lead to such renunciation? But where the miser is truly sublime, is in his disinterestedness."

"The miser's disinterestedness? You must be jesting, Florestan!"

"Yes, I repeat it, he is truly sublime in his disinterestedness! The miser is perfectly aware that he is despised and execrated during life, and that his death will be greeted with delight by his heirs; yet, you cannot name a single one who has tried to make his treasure disappear with him, with a view of avenging his wrongs. Two millions in bank notes may be turned to ashes in five minutes, and leave no trace; but no, these good-natured misers, full of magnanimity and forgiveness, forget their injuries and enrich their heirs. I know of nothing comparable to the martyrdom of a miser; and it is not the torture of an hour, but of a lifetime. He knows that the treasure, ama.s.sed so painfully and with so many privations, will never be enjoyed by himself; that the fatal hour will come when this gold, which he loves more than life, shall be dissipated in riotous living, in foolish orgies, in the midst of which his name and memory shall, perhaps, be scoffed and insulted--and by his own son, alas! And yet he has no thought of punishing such insolent cupidity by destroying his treasure!

Ah! believe me, Louis, avarice is a strong, mighty pa.s.sion; and nothing that is strong and great can be useless. G.o.d, in His infinite wisdom, did not create pa.s.sions without an aim--that is, a power without its use. If he endowed misers with incredible concentration of will, it is because they have some mysterious purpose to achieve. I repeat it, all forces have and must have their expansion, all well-directed pa.s.sions their fruitful issues. Let us suppose, for instance, that a minister of finance should bring to the management and economy of public affairs that inflexibility which characterizes the miser; would not many wonders result from such avarice? Though Fouquet ruined the finances of France, never was the country more flourishing than under Colbert; without this avaricious minister, the prodigalities of Louis XIV would have been impossible; and all those marvels of magnificence, of art and poetry, would have remained unknown. As you see, all is linked, enchained together; each cause produces its effect; the prodigality of Louis XIV is the consequence of the avarice of Colbert."

"Remember, Florestan," said Louis, sadly, "that while this _great king_, whose memory I have always abhorred, was ruining the country by his insolent prodigalities, the heavily-taxed people were living in atrocious servitude to provide for the bold ostentations of Louis XIV, his mistresses and their children. And what misery still exists in our days! Ah! if you knew what a life of wretchedness Mariette has endured! Although the poor child is strong and courageous, the sight of such frightful dest.i.tution would fill your heart with bitter resentment."

"What will you, I am a philanthropist in my own way; I take things as they come, and, as I cannot do better, I spend to my last farthing.

None can accuse me of encouraging the idleness of luxurious industries."

"I do not accuse your generous heart, my friend; the man who spends his money liberally or foolishly, provides work for the poor, and work is bread--yet, you laud avarice."

"My dear fellow, who would appreciate the excellence of arms, if not the warrior? The excellence of a horse, if not the cavalier? The excellence of a lute, if not the player? Paganini, as pope, would have canonized Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins, which the great artist plays so admirably. Therefore, as I have the presumption of playing admirably with millions, I would canonize my uncle, that heroic martyr of avarice, if distributive justice would only place in my hands the wonderful instruments of prodigality he is manufacturing by h.o.a.rding his money."

"Ah! heavens!" cried Louis, suddenly gazing at his friend with a horrified expression.

"What is it?" asked Saint-Herem, quietly.

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"True enough, M. Ramon decided to come to Paris very suddenly."

"Is my uncle in Paris?"

"Ah! Florestan, what strange things happen in this world--"

"What do you mean?"

"And to think that I should be the one to announce it, after the conversation we have just had together!--It is, indeed, most strange!"

"But what in the deuce have you to announce? And what is there so strange about it?"

"I have told you that my father had arranged a marriage between your cousin and myself."

"Yes, what then?"

"Being in ignorance of my refusal, and wishing to hasten a marriage he desired as ardently as my father, your uncle and his daughter left Dreux yesterday and arrived this morning--"

"In Paris. Well, what of it? Why this hesitation and embarra.s.sment on your part, my dear Louis?"

"They did not come directly to Paris, but stopped at Versailles--at Versailles--where my poor father went--"

At this thought, which revived all his grief for his father's terrible death, Louis again broke into sobs.

"My dear friend, I understand your bitter grief," said Florestan, moved by his friend's emotion, "but try to be more courageous."

"If I hesitate in speaking more clearly," resumed the young man, when he had wiped away his tears, "it is because, in this hour of sorrow and mourning, I feel to be painfully affected in seeing the satisfaction--very excusable perhaps--which the announcement I have to make will no doubt cause you."

"In heaven's name, Louis, explain yourself!" entreated Saint-Herem, in alarm.

"As I have already told you, my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and his daughter."

"And then?"

"They must have taken the train together, entered the same compartment--and--"

"My G.o.d!--it would be too horrible!" cried Florestan, burying his face in his hands.

The cry of horror and compa.s.sion was so spontaneous and sincere, that Louis was touched by this proof of kindness of heart on the part of his friend, whose first impulse had been a sentiment of generous commiseration, and not of cynical, covetous joy.

CHAPTER XIV.

A long interval of silence followed, which Louis was the first to break.

"I cannot tell you how your grief touches me, Florestan," he said, with effusion, "it is so much in sympathy with what I feel at this sad moment."

"What will you, my friend; as you are aware, I had but little affection for my uncle, and could jest concerning his inheritance when I believed him in perfect health. But it would require a heart of stone and an outrageous cupidity to feel no sorrow at the terrible fate which my uncle and his daughter may have met. As to what I have said of avarice, that pa.s.sion whose consequences are so fruitful, I retract nothing; only I might have treated the subject more seriously had I known it to be a personal question. But I have, at least, proved that I am not of those who receive an inheritance with cynical joy. Now, my dear Louis, forgive me if I ask a question which may revive your grief.

In the painful researches made by you to recover your father's remains, did anything lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped?"

"All I can say, Florestan, is, that I did not see them among the injured or dying. As to the victims whose fate they and my father must have shared, their features are unrecognizable."

"As they must have been with your father, they probably shared his fate. However, I shall write to Dreux and make active researches. If you hear of anything new, let me know--But, in the midst of all these sad incidents, I am forgetting Mariette--"

"It was only a cruel misunderstanding, as you suspected. I found her more affectionate and devoted than ever."

"Her love will be a precious consolation in your sorrow--Now, good-bye, my poor Louis. Remember that you may always trust in my affection and friendship for you."

"Ah! Florestan, were it not for your friendship and Mariette's love, I know not how I could bear this crushing blow. Good-bye, my friend, and let me know all you can discover concerning your uncle."

Once alone, Louis pondered long over what he should do. Finally, coming to a determination, he placed the gold he had discovered into a traveling bag, thrust the will into his pocket, and at once proceeded to the office of his employer, the notary and friend mentioned by his father.

The notary was much affected by the details of the probable death of his client and, having expressed his sympathy to Louis, promised to fulfill all the legal formalities necessary to establish the death of the old miser.

"There remains one question I wish to ask," said Louis, when all the arrangements had been agreed upon. "When all these sad formalities have been gone through, can I dispose of my father's possessions?"

"Most a.s.suredly, my dear Louis," replied the notary.

"These, then, are my intentions. I have brought you a sum of money amounting to over two hundred thousand francs, which I found hidden in a drawer; with this gold I wish to a.s.sure a pension of twelve hundred francs to the G.o.dmother of my fiance."

"But is the young girl in a position that--" interrupted the notary.

"The young girl in question earns her own bread," broke in Louis in his turn. "But I love her, and no power on earth can prevent me from marrying her," he concluded, in a firm, resolute tone.