"Ah! the mischief!" thought he; "what a woman! she is either a sly one
or an angel"; and he got into his hired coach, the horses of which
were stamping on the pavement of the silent courtyard, while the
coachman was asleep on his box after cursing for the hundredth time
his tardy customer.
The next morning about eight o'clock the old gentleman mounted the
stairs of a house in the rue de l'Observance where Octave de Camps was
living. If there was ever an astonished man it was the young professor
when he beheld his uncle. The door was unlocked, his lamp still
burning; he had been sitting up all night.
"You rascal!" said Monsieur de Bourbonne, sitting down in the nearest
chair; "since when is it the fashion to laugh at uncles who have
twenty-six thousand francs a year from solid acres to which we are the
sole heir? Let me tell you that in the olden time we stood in awe of
such uncles as that. Come, speak up, what fault have you to find with
me? Haven't I played my part as uncle properly? Did I ever require you
to respect me? Have I ever refused you money? When did I shut the door
in your face on pretence that you had come to look after my health?
Haven't you had the most accommodating and the least domineering uncle
that there is in France,--I won't say Europe, because that might be
too presumptuous. You write to me, or you don't write,--no matter, I
live on pledged affection, and I am making you the prettiest estate in
all Touraine, the envy of the department.
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