“Oh, uncle! What you say pains me very much!” said Marcel, penitently. “Has my silence been interpreted in this way? To obey my father I have come to bury myself at Ars for several weeks. I think I have given him sufficient pledges of my good intentions, in spite of a few silly escapades I have been guilty of.”
“Debts amounting to three hundred thousand francs, my little Marcel, without counting what I often gave you unknown to your parents, eh?”
“Ah! Uncle Graff, why return to discuss such matters?”
“Yes, you forget them very soon, don’t you?”
Marcel smiled.
“You are a very indulgent uncle; you know what young men are!”
“All the same, I have never been young! Ah! Marcel, I should have adored pleasure and luxury had I not looked as solemn as a churchwarden.”
“So you gave yourself up to finance, and succeeded brilliantly! My good uncle, it is you who pay when your spendthrift of a nephew is in difficulties! All the same, I am very fond of you, Uncle Graff.”
He had taken him by the shoulders, and was embracing him with warmth. The old man, his eyes filled with tears, looked tenderly at the handsome young fellow by his side. He coughed to conceal his emotion, and said—
“Yes, I know you are fond of me. Well, well! Promise me that you will write a nice little letter to your mother.”