of his fortune.
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.
Seated close beside him, with his two hands tightly clasped in those of Louis, Gaston gazed at his brother as a fond mother would gaze at her son just returned from the battle-field.
There was scarcely any danger and excitement which the mate of the redoubtable Captain Warth had not experienced; nothing had ever before caused him to lose his calm presence of mind, to force him to betray that he had a heart. The sight of this long unseen brother seemed to have changed his nature; he was like a woman, weeping and laughing at once.
“And is this really Louis?” he cried. “My dear brother! Why, I should have recognized you among a thousand; the expression of your face is just the same; your smile takes me back twenty-three years.”
Louis did indeed smile, just as he smiled on that fatal night when his horse stumbled, and prevented Gaston’s escape.
He smiled now as if he was perfectly happy at meeting his brother.
And he was much more at ease than he had been a few moments before. He had exerted all the courage he possessed to venture upon this meeting. Nothing but pressing necessity would have induced him to face this brother, who seemed to have risen from the dead to reproach him for his crimes.
His teeth chattered and he trembled in every limb when he rang Gaston’s bell, and handed the servant his card, saying:
“Take this to your master.”
The few moments before Gaston’s appearance seemed to be centuries. He said to himself:
“Perhaps it is not he; if it is he, does he know? Does he suspect anything? How will he receive me?”
He was so anxious, that when he saw Gaston running downstairs, he felt like fleeing from the house without speaking to him.
Not knowing the nature of Gaston’s feelings, whether he was hastening toward him in anger or brotherly love, he stood perfectly motionless. But one glance at his brother’s face convinced him that he was the same affectionate, credulous, trusting Gaston of old; and, now that he was certain that his brother harbored no suspicions, he smilingly received the demonstrations lavished upon him.
“After all,” continued Gaston, “I am not alone in the world; I shall have someone to love, someone to care for me.”
Then, as if suddenly struck by a thought, he said:
“Are you married, Louis?”
“No.”
“That is a pity, a great pity. It would so add to my happiness to see you the husband of a good, affectionate woman, the father of bright, lovely children! It would be a comfort to have a happy family about me. I should look upon them all as my own. To live alone, without a loving wife to share one’s joys and sorrows, is not living at all: it is a sort of living death. There is no joy equal to having the affection of a true woman whose happiness is in your keeping. Oh the sadness of having only one’s self to care for! But what am I saying? Louis, forgive me. I have you now, and ought not that to be enough? I have a brother, a kind friend who will be interested in me, and afford me company, instead of the weariness of solitude.”
“Yes, Gaston, yes: I am your best friend.”
“Of course you are. Being my brother, you are naturally my true friend. You are not married, you say. Then we will have to do the best we can, and keep house for ourselves. We will live together like two old bachelors, as we are, and be as happy as kings; we will lead a gay life, and enjoy everything that can be enjoyed. I feel twenty years younger already. The sight of your face renews my youth, and I feel as active and strong as I did the night I swam across the swollen Rhone. And that was long, long ago. The struggles, privations, and anxieties endured since, have been enough to age any man. I feel old, older than my years.”
“What an idea!” interrupted Louis: “why, you look younger than I do.”
“You are jesting.”
“I swear I think you look the younger.”
“Would you have recognized me?”
“Instantly. You are very little changed.”
And Louis
