He was still trembling with this frightful hallucination when somebody knocked at his door.  It was the concierge, who brought him two letters.

The first was stamped with the celebrated name: 

“Comedie Francaise, 1680.”  The manager announced in the most gracious terms that he had read with the keenest pleasure his drama in verse, entitled L’Atelier, and he hoped that the reading committee would accept this work.

“Too late!” thought the young poet, as he tore open the other envelope.

This second letter bore the address of a Paris notary, and informed M. Amedee Violette that M. Isidore Gaufre had died without leaving a will, and that, as nephew of the defunct, he would receive a part of the estate, still difficult to appraise, but which would not be less than two hundred and fifty or three hundred thousand francs.

Success and fortune!  Everything came at once!  Amedee was at first overwhelmed with surprise; but with all these unhoped-for favors of fortune, which did not give him the power to repair his misfortune, the noble poet deeply realized that riches and glory were not equal to a great love or a beautiful dream, and, completely upset by the irony of his fate, he broke into a harsh burst of laughter.

CHAPTER XV

REPARATION

The late M. Violette was not mistaken when he supposed M. Gaufre capable of disinheriting his family in favor of his servant-mistress, but Berenice was wanting in patience.  The rough beard and cap of an irresistible sergeant-major were the ruin of the girl.  One Sunday, when M. Gaufre, as usual, recited vespers at St. Sulpice, he found that for the first time in his life he had forgotten his snuff-box.  The holy offices were unbearable to this hypocritical person unless frequently broken by a good pinch of snuff.  Instead of waiting for the final benediction and then going to take his usual walk, he left his church warden’s stall and returned unexpectedly to the Rue Servandoni, where he surprised Berenice in a loving interview with her military friend.  The old man’s rage was pitiful to behold.  He turned the Normandy beauty ignominiously out of doors, tore up the will he had made in her favor, and died some weeks after from indigestion, and left, in spite of himself, all his fortune to his natural heirs.

Amedee’s drama had been accepted by the Comedie Francaise, but was not to be brought out until spring.  The notary in charge of his uncle’s estate had advanced him a few thousand francs, and, feeling sad and not having the courage to be present at the marriage of Maurice and Maria, the poet wished at least to enjoy, in a way, his new fortune and the independence that it gave him; so he resigned his position and left for a trip to Italy, in the hope of dissipating his grief.