"Now that we have settled this matter, my dear boy, go ahead! I do not need, I am sure, to remind you to think occasionally of your old uncle: I know you well, and that satisfies me. I thank you for what you have been to me, and bless you from the bottom of my heart!
"Come, don't give way, old fellow: I am in Heaven, my soul is free and rejoicing in the glories of the Infinite. Is there anything in this for you to mourn over? Farewell."
After reading this letter, my dear Louis, need I tell you that I did the contrary to what my poor uncle bade me, and that I gave way to my grief. The tears streamed down my cheeks, my heart was breaking, and I could no longer see this last word, "Farewell," as I pressed the letter to my lips.
Such a mixture of tenderness and elevation of tone, such touching solicitude to console my grief, such boundless confidence in my love and fidelity! I felt crushed with my grief, proud only to think that I was worthy of the generosity with which this noble-hearted man was overwhelming me, prodigal as a father in his kindness. It seemed to me at that moment that I had never loved him enough, and the grief at his loss mingled itself with something like remorse. As if he were able hear me, I swore to him that I would live for the accomplishment of his wishes: from the depths of my soul, indeed, I felt certain that he saw me.
When the flow of my tears had ceased, I did not want to tarry a moment in the accomplishment of his last behests. I ran to his bed-chamber, opened his desk, and found the two portraits. One, a valuable miniature, represents a woman of twenty-five, the other is a photograph of Anna Campbell at the age of fifteen. Although not so pretty as her mother, perhaps, she has a charming childlike face; the poor little thing felt uncomfortable, no doubt, when they made her sit, for her expression is rather sulky and unnatural. Still she gives promise of being attractive when she has passed the awkward age. I felt myself suddenly possessed by a sentiment of affection for this unknown cousin, whose guardian I had become and whose husband I am to be. Upon this cold picture I repeated to my uncle the oath to obey his wishes; then, taking up a pen, I wrote a will appointing Anna Campbell the universal legatee of all the property which my uncle left us.
But one part of my inheritance, the most remarkable and the least expected, was at present unknown either to the notary or to myself.
I don't wish to make myself out better than I really am, my dear Louis: I must declare, nevertheless, that in spite of the very natural bewilderment which I felt on finding myself the owner of such a fortune, my first thought, when once I had disposed of the legal matters, was to pay a tribute of mournful regrets to the memory of my poor uncle. I should have considered it base ingratitude, not to say impiety on my part, to have shown myself too eager to enjoy the wealth bequeathed to me by so generous a benefactor. His loss really left a cruel void in my heart. I decided, therefore, at least to live a few months at Férouzat. I wrote immediately to the aunt of Anna Campbell, to express my resolution to fulfil the wishes of my second father, begging her to dispose of my services in every way as those of a protector and friend ready to respond to every appeal. Four days afterwards, I received from her a most cordial and elegantly-worded letter. She assured me of her confidence in all the good accounts which my uncle had given of me; and she gave me news of my fiancée, "who for one who is still only a child, promises already to develop into an accomplished woman."
Having discharged these conventional duties, I shut myself up in my retreat, and set to work.