‘Avoid unpleasant details,’ observed my great-uncle gently.

At these words a sudden peace fell upon me.  I had been angry with the man before; I had not sought to spare him; and now, in a moment, I saw that there was nothing to spare.  Whether from natural heartlessness or extreme old age, the soul was not at home; and my benefactor, who had kept the fire lit in my room for a month past—­my only relative except Alain, whom I knew already to be a hired spy—­had trodden out the last sparks of hope and interest.

‘Certainly,’ said I; ’and, indeed, the day for them is nearly over.  I was taken to Monsieur de Culemberg’s,—­I presume, sir, that you know the Abbe de Culemberg?’

He indicated assent without opening his eyes.

‘He was a very brave and a very learned man—­’

‘And a very holy one,’ said my uncle civilly.

‘And a very holy one, as you observe,’ I continued.  ’He did an infinity of good, and through all the Terror kept himself from the guillotine.  He brought me up, and gave me such education 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 aves 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 a 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.