Finally, after long weary years of toil and struggle, he was worth a million in gold, besides immense tracts of land.

He had often said that he would never leave Brazil, that he wanted to end his days in Rio.  He had forgotten that love for his native land never dies in the heart of a Frenchman.  Now that he was rich, he wished to die in France.

He made inquiries, and found that the law of limitations would permit him to return without being disturbed by the authorities.  He left his property in charge of an agent, and embarked for France, taking a large portion of his fortune with him.

Twenty-three years and four months had elapsed since he fled from home.

On a bright, crisp day in January, 1866, he once again stepped on French soil.  With a sad heart, he stood upon the quays at Bordeaux, and compared the past with the present.

He had departed a young man, ambitious, hopeful, and beloved; he returned gray-haired, disappointed, trusting no one.

Gold could not supply the place of affection.  He had said that riches would bring happiness:  his wealth was immense, and he was miserable.

His health, too, began to suffer from this sudden change of climate.  Rheumatism confined him to his bed for several months.  As soon as he could sit up, the physicians sent him to the warm baths, where he recovered his health, but not his spirits.  He felt his lonely condition more terribly in his own country than when in a foreign land.

He determined to divert his mind by engaging in some occupation which would keep him too busy to think of himself and his disappointment.  Charmed with the beauty of the Pyrenees, and the lovely valley of Aspe, he resolved to take up his abode there.

An iron-mill was for sale near Oloron, on the borders of the Gara; he bought it with the intention of utilizing the immense quantity of wood, which, for want of means of transportation, was being wasted in the mountains.

He was soon settled comfortably in his new home, and enjoying a busy, active life.

One evening, as he was ruminating over the past, his servant brought him a card, and said the gentleman was waiting to see him.

He read the name on the card:  Louis de Clameran.

Many years had passed since Gaston had experienced such violent agitation.  His blood rushed to his face, and he trembled like a leaf.

The old home affections which he thought dead now sprung up anew in his heart.  A thousand confused memories rushed through his mind.  Like one in a dream, he tottered toward the door, gasping, in a smothered, broken voice: 

“My brother! oh, my brother!”

Hurriedly passing by the frightened servant, he ran downstairs.

In the passage stood a man:  it was Louis de Clameran.

Gaston threw his arms around his neck and held him in a close embrace for some minutes, and then drew him into the room.