“Mais oui, monsieur: c'est moi” “—it is I,” I said; and wondering what in the world he could want with me, I waited for him to go on.
His eyes opened a little wider, and a light flashed in them. He seemed to be struggling with an emotion that made it impossible for him to speak. His throat, I could see, gave two or three convulsive swallows. Then his lips parted, his eyes grew dim with tears, and very huskily, bending forward, he demanded, “Et—et vous ne me connaissez pas?”—And you do not know me?
I scanned his face carefully. I could not recognize it. I shook my head. “Mais non, monsieur—I do not think that I have ever seen you before.
“No, that is true. But I hoped that you might know me, nevertheless.... Gregory, it is I; it is thy uncle—de la Bourbonnaye.” And he stretched out his two arms, to embrace me.
“What!... Thou!... My—my Uncle—Florimond!... Oh!” I gasped. My heart bounded terribly. My head swam. The objects round about began to dance bewilderingly to and fro. The floor under my feet rocked like the deck of a ship. There was a loud continuous ringing in my ears.... But still I saw the figure of that sad old man standing there motionless, with arms outstretched toward me, waiting. A thousand unutterable emotions were battling in my heart; a thousand incoherent thoughts were racing through my brain. This poor old man my Uncle Florimond! This poor old man—in threadbare cloth and tattered linen.... Then suddenly an impulse mastered me. I rushed forward, and threw myself upon his breast, and—like a schoolgirl—fell to weeping.
Well, as the French proverb says, everything comes at last to him who knows how to wait. To me at last had come the moment for which I had waited so many years; and I stood face to face with my Uncle Florimond, with the hero of my imagination, the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. But in place of the rich and powerful nobleman whom I had dreamed of, the dashing soldier, the brilliant courtier, I found the poor decrepit aged man whom you have seen. “Thou knowest, my Gregory,” he explained to me. by and by, “since the overthrow of the legitimate monarchy by the first revolution, our family has never been rich. In 1792, upon the eve of the Terror, my father emigrated from the beautiful France, and sought refuge in Sweden, where I and my sister were born, and where he remained until 1815. Upon the restoration we returned to our fatherland; but our chateaux of which we counted no fewer than three, had been burned, our hôtel in Paris sacked, our wealth confiscated and dissipated, by those barbarians, those assassins, those incendiaries, and we possessed scarcely even the wherewithal to live. It was for that that we consented to the misalliance made by our Aurore in espousing thy grandfather, Philip Brace. American and bourgeois that he was, in admitting him to our connection, our family suffered the first disgrace of its history. Yet without dowry, my sister could never have married her equal in France, and would most likely have become a nun. But that excellent Brace, he loved her so much, her station was so high, his own so low, he was happy to obtain her hand at any terms. She, too, reciprocated his affection; he was indeed a fine fellow; and the marriage was accomplished.... It is now some ten years since, by the goodness of my beloved sister, I was enabled to amass a sufficient sum to purchase for myself an annuity of six thousand francs as a provision for my age. But behold, the other day—it is now about two months ago, perhaps—the annuity company goes into bankruptcy; and I am left absolutely without a sou. So I am come to America to seek an asylum with my sister's son, Peter. I am arrived to-day even, aboard the steamship La Touraine. Figure to thyself that, fault of money, I have been forced to make the passage second class! To-morrow I shall proceed to Norr-veesh.”
“Have you written to Uncle Peter to expect you?” I inquired.