ation as I have. It was in his house
in the country at Dammarie, near Melun, that I made the acquaintance of
your agent, Mr. Vicary, who lay there in hiding, only to fall a victim
at the last to a gang of _chauffeurs_."

"That poor Mr. Vicary!" observed my uncle. "He had been many times in my
interests to France, and this was his first failure. _Quel charmant
homme, n'est-ce pas?_"

"Infinitely so," said I. "But I would not willingly detain you any
further with a story, the details of which it must naturally be more or
less unpleasant for you to hear. Suffice it that, by M. de Culemberg's
own advice, I said farewell at eighteen to that kind preceptor and his
books, and entered the service of France; and have since then carried
arms in such a manner as not to disgrace my family."

"You narrate well; _vous avez la voix chaude_," said my uncle, turning
on his pillows as if to study me. "I have a very good account of you by
Monsieur de Mauseant, whom you helped in Spain. And you had some
education, from the Abbe de Culemberg, a man of good house? Yes, you
will do very well. You have a good manner and a handsome person, which
hurts nothing. We are all handsome in the family; even I myself, I have
had my successes, the memories of which still charm me. It is my
intention, my nephew, to make of you my heir. I am not very well content
with my other nephew, Monsieur le Vicomte: he has not been respectful,
which is the flattery due to age. And there are other matters."

I was half tempted to throw back in his face that inheritance so coldly
offered. At the same time I had to consider that he was an old man, and,
after all, my relation; and that I was a poor one, in considerable
straits, with a hope at heart which that inheritance might yet enable me
to realise. Nor could I forget that, however icy his manners, he had
behaved to me from the first with the extreme of liberality and--I was
about to write, kindness, but the word, in that connection, would not
come. I really owed the man some measure of gratitude, which it would be
an ill manner to repay if I were to insult him on his deathbed.

"Your will, monsieur, must ever be my rule," said I, bowing.

"You have wit, _monsieur mon neveu_," said he, "the best wit--the wit of
silence. Many might have deafened me with their gratitude. Gratitude!"
he repeated, with a peculiar intonation, and lay and smiled to himself.
"But to approach what is more important. As a prisoner of war,