“Uncle!”

He opened his arms to me and I fell into them.  His first remark was: 

“I trust at least that you have not yet dined.”

“No, uncle.”

“To Foyot’s, then!”

When you expect to meet a man in his wrath and get an invitation to dinner, you feel almost as if you had been taken in.  You are heated, your arguments are at your fingers’ ends, your stock of petulance is ready for immediate use; and all have to be stored in bond.

When I had recovered from my surprise, I said: 

“I expected you sooner, from your letter.”

“Your suppositions were correct.  I have been two days here, at the Grand Hotel.  I went there on account of the dining-room, for my friend Hublette (you remember Hublette at Bourges) told me:  ’Mouillard, you must see that room before you retire from business.’”

“I should have gone to see you there, uncle, if I had known it.”

“You would not have found me.  Business before pleasure, Fabien.  I had to see three barristers and five solicitors.  You know that business of that kind can not wait.  I saw them.  Business over, I can indulge my feelings.  Here I am.  Does Foyot suit you?”

“Certainly, uncle.”

“Come on, then nephew, quick, march!  Paris, makes one feel quite young again!”

And really Uncle Mouillard did look quite young, almost as young as he looked provincial.  His tall figure, and the countrified cut of his coat, made all who passed him turn to stare, accustomed as Parisians are to curiosities.  He tapped the wood pavement with his stick, admired the effects of Wallace’s philanthropy, stopped before the enamelled street-signs, and grew enthusiastic over the traffic in the Rue de Vaugirard.

The dinner was capital—­just the kind a generous uncle will give to a blameless nephew.  M. Mouillard, who has a long standing affection for chambertin, ordered two bottles to begin with.  He drank the whole of one and half of the other, eating in proportion, and talked unceasingly and positively at the top of his voice, as his wont was.  He told me the story of two of his best actions this year, a judicial separation—­my uncle is very strong in judicial separations—­and the abduction of a minor.  At first I looked out for personal allusions.  But no, he told the story from pure love of his art, without omitting an interlocutory judgment, or a judgment reserved, just as he would have told the story of Helen and Paris, if he had been employed in that well-known case.  Not a word about myself.  I waited, yet nothing came but the successive steps in the action.

After the ice, M. Mouillard called for a cigar.

“Waiter, what cigars have you got?”

“Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales.  Which would you like, sir?”

“Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke.”