A letter from M. Mouillard breathing fire and fury. Were I not so low spirited I could laugh at it.
He would have liked me, after taking my degree at two in the afternoon, to take the train for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, his practice, and provincial bliss awaited me. M. Mouillard's friends had had due notice, and would have come to meet me at the station. In short, I am an ungrateful wretch. At least I might have fixed the hour of my imminent arrival, for I can not want to stop in Paris with nothing there to detain me. But no, not a sign, not a word of returning; simply the announcement that I have passed. This goes beyond the bounds of mere folly and carelessness. M. Mouillard, his most elementary notions of life shaken to their foundations, concludes in these words:
"Fabien, I have long suspected it; some creature has you in bondage.
I am coming to break the bonds!
"BRUTUS MOUILLARD."
I know him well; he will be here tomorrow.
May 6th.
No uncle as yet.
May 7th.
No more uncle than yesterday.
May 8th.
Total eclipse continues. No news of M. Mouillard. This is very strange.
May 9th. This evening at seven o'clock, just as I was going out to dine, I saw, a few yards away, a tall, broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of lank white hair, a long neck throttled in a white neckcloth, a frock-coat flapping about a pair of attenuated legs. I lifted up my voice:
"Uncle!"
He opened his arms to me and I fell into them. His first remark was: