Louis was deeply moved by the reading of this singular testament, and wept long as he reflected on the eccentricities of his beloved father. The day was drawing to a close, when he was finally aroused from his grief by a knock at his door and the well known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem.

Quickly unbolting the door of the gloomy attic chamber, he found himself in his friend's arms, who cried sympathetically:

"Louis! my poor Louis! I know all. The concierge has just told me of your father's death. Ah! what a cruel, frightful accident!"

"Bead this, Florestan," said Louis, with tears in his eyes, giving his friend the testament left by his father, "and you will understand my bitter grief."

Saint-Herem took the paper and, seating himself by the window, read it to the end.

"Do you think I can now blame his avarice?" asked Louis, when his friend had finished. "Was not his only aim to enrich me, to place me in a position to gain more wealth, or to make a generous use of the possessions he left me? He imposed the hardest privations on himself that he might hoard up treasures for me!"

"Nothing surprises me on the part of a miser," returned Florestan. "They are capable of great things—and this applies to all who are a prey to that powerful and prolific passion."

"Don't exaggerate, Florestan."

"This may seem a paradox to you, but there is nothing more true. We have always been stupidly unjust to misers," went on Florestan, with growing enthusiasm. "The genius and zeal they display in inventing inconceivable, impossible economies is prodigious. Altars should be raised in their honor! Thanks to their wise, obstinate parsimony, they possess a wonderful knack of turning everything into gold; careful saving of matches, picking up stray pins, a centime carefully invested; in fact, the most trifling of economies bring in returns. And yet, the world denies the existence of alchemists, the inventors of the philosophical stone! Once more, I repeat it, do they not turn into gold what is nothing in other hands!"

"You are right enough on that score," laughed Louis.

"On that and on all other scores," rejoined Florestan, seriously. "Now, my dear fellow, follow well my comparison; it is worthy of my most brilliant days of rhetoric! Take a dry, sterile land, and dig a well into it; what happens? The smallest springs, the thinnest stream of subterranean water, the invisible tears of the earth, evaporated or lost until then without profit to anyone, will concentrate, drop by drop, into the bottom of this well; little by little the water will increase and rise, the reservoir will fill; then, if a beneficent hand spreads this salutary spray liberally, verdure and blossoms will appear as if by enchantment on that hitherto unfruitful, desolate soil. Now, Louis, is not my comparison good? Is not the miser's hidden treasure like this deep well, where, thanks to his obstinate and courageous savings, riches accumulate drop by drop, forming a reservoir from which may spring luxury, splendors, magnificence and prodigalities of all sorts?"

"My dear Florestan," said Louis, drawn from his grief by his friend's enthusiasm, "though my judgment of my father's conduct may have been influenced by filial affection, your course of reasoning on the subject of economy proves that I was not far wrong, at least."

"You are indeed right, Louis; for if we take a philosophical view of avarice, the miser is still more admirable."

"This appears less just."

"Do you not admit that, sooner or later, these riches, so laboriously amassed by the miser, will almost inevitably shower magnificences of all sorts; for the proverb says: A miserly father makes a prodigal son."

"I admit that prodigality is the usual dispenser of these long-hoarded treasures; but where do you see philanthropy in that?"

"Where do I see it? Why, in everything! Do not the consequences of luxury and magnificence bring ease and comfort to the hundreds of families that weave silks and laces, chisel gold and silver, carve precious stones, build palaces, sculpture the ebony of furniture, varnish carriages, breed thoroughbred horses, and cultivate rare flowers? Have not artists, architects, musicians, singers, danseuses, all that is art, pleasure, poetry, enchantment, a large share of the gold shower that produces these wonders? And does not this gold shower spring from that magical reservoir so slowly and perseveringly filled by the miser? Therefore, without the miser, we should have no reservoir, no gold shower, and none of the marvels which this sparkling, beneficent dew alone can produce—Now, let us look at the miser from a catholic point of view—"

"Look at the miser from a catholic point of view!" echoed Louis, in astonishment.

"That is exactly where he is truly admirable," rejoined Saint-Herem, imperturbably.

"I confess that this theory seems to me difficult to sustain."

"On the contrary, it is most simple. Is not abnegation one of the greatest virtues known?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to cite me a monastic order whose members practice the renouncement of worldly pleasures more absolutely and sincerely than the miser. And his renouncement is truly the more heroic, because he has within his grasp all the delights and enchantments of soul, mind and senses, and possesses the incredible courage to refuse them all. There is strength, there is the triumph of an energetic will."

"But you must take into consideration that avarice almost invariably stifles all other passions, and the renunciation is less difficult to a miser than to another. In depriving himself, he satisfies his predominant passion."

"Just so! And is not a power a great passion that will lead to such renunciation? But where the miser is truly sublime, is in his disinterestedness."

"The miser's disinterestedness? You must be jesting, Florestan!"

"Yes, I repeat it, he is truly sublime in his disinterestedness! The miser is perfectly aware that he is despised and execrated during life, and that his death will be greeted with delight by his heirs; yet, you cannot name a single one who has tried to make his treasure disappear with him, with a view of avenging his wrongs. Two millions in bank notes may be turned to ashes in five minutes, and leave no trace; but no, these good-natured misers, full of magnanimity and forgiveness, forget their injuries and enrich their heirs. I know of nothing comparable to the martyrdom of a miser; and it is not the torture of an hour, but of a lifetime. He knows that the treasure, amassed so painfully and with so many privations, will never be enjoyed by himself; that the fatal hour will come when this gold, which he loves more than life, shall be dissipated in riotous living, in foolish orgies, in the midst of which his name and memory shall, perhaps, be scoffed and insulted—and by his own son, alas! And yet he has no thought of punishing such insolent cupidity by destroying his treasure! Ah! believe me, Louis, avarice is a strong, mighty passion; and nothing that is strong and great can be useless. God, in His infinite wisdom, did not create passions without an aim—that is, a power without its use. If he endowed misers with incredible concentration of will, it is because they have some mysterious purpose to achieve. I repeat it, all forces have and must have their expansion, all well-directed passions their fruitful issues. Let us suppose, for instance, that a minister of finance should bring to the management and economy of public affairs that inflexibility which characterizes the miser; would not many wonders result from such avarice? Though Fouquet ruined the finances of France, never was the country more flourishing than under Colbert; without this avaricious minister, the prodigalities of Louis XIV would have been impossible; and all those marvels of magnificence, of art and poetry, would have remained unknown. As you see, all is linked, enchained together; each cause produces its effect; the prodigality of Louis XIV is the consequence of the avarice of Colbert."

"Remember, Florestan," said Louis, sadly, "that while this great king, whose memory I have always abhorred, was ruining the country by his insolent prodigalities, the heavily-taxed people were living in atrocious servitude to provide for the bold ostentations of Louis XIV, his mistresses and their children. And what misery still exists in our days! Ah! if you knew what a life of wretchedness Mariette has endured! Although the poor child is strong and courageous, the sight of such frightful destitution would fill your heart with bitter resentment."

"What will you, I am a philanthropist in my own way; I take things as they come, and, as I cannot do better, I spend to my last farthing. None can accuse me of encouraging the idleness of luxurious industries."

"I do not accuse your generous heart, my friend; the man who spends his money liberally or foolishly, provides work for the poor, and work is bread—yet, you laud avarice."

"My dear fellow, who would appreciate the excellence of arms, if not the warrior? The excellence of a horse, if not the cavalier? The excellence of a lute, if not the player? Paganini, as pope, would have canonized Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins, which the great artist plays so admirably. Therefore, as I have the presumption of playing admirably with millions, I would canonize my uncle, that heroic martyr of avarice, if distributive justice would only place in my hands the wonderful instruments of prodigality he is manufacturing by hoarding his money."

"Ah! heavens!" cried Louis, suddenly gazing at his friend with a horrified expression.

"What is it?" asked Saint-Herem, quietly.

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"True enough, M. Ramon decided to come to Paris very suddenly."

"Is my uncle in Paris?"

"Ah! Florestan, what strange things happen in this world—"

"What do you mean?"

"And to think that I should be the one to announce it, after the conversation we have just had together!—It is, indeed, most strange!"

"But what in the deuce have you to announce? And what is there so strange about it?"

"I have told you that my father had arranged a marriage between your cousin and myself."

"Yes, what then?"

"Being in ignorance of my refusal, and wishing to hasten a marriage he desired as ardently as my father, your uncle and his daughter left Dreux yesterday and arrived this morning—"

"In Paris. Well, what of it? Why this hesitation and embarrassment on your part, my dear Louis?"

"They did not come directly to Paris, but stopped at Versailles—at
Versailles—where my poor father went—"

At this thought, which revived all his grief for his father's terrible death, Louis again broke into sobs.

"My dear friend, I understand your bitter grief," said Florestan, moved by his friend's emotion, "but try to be more courageous."

"If I hesitate in speaking more clearly," resumed the young man, when he had wiped away his tears, "it is because, in this hour of sorrow and mourning, I feel to be painfully affected in seeing the satisfaction—very excusable perhaps—which the announcement I have to make will no doubt cause you."

"In heaven's name, Louis, explain yourself!" entreated Saint-Herem, in alarm.

"As I have already told you, my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and his daughter."

"And then?"

"They must have taken the train together, entered the same compartment—and—"

"My God!—it would be too horrible!" cried Florestan, burying his face in his hands.

The cry of horror and compassion was so spontaneous and sincere, that Louis was touched by this proof of kindness of heart on the part of his friend, whose first impulse had been a sentiment of generous commiseration, and not of cynical, covetous joy.