My Uncle Florimond — Reading Companion

her explained to me that in this particular--signing his family name without his given one--he but followed a custom prevalent among French noblemen. Well, as I was saying, his letters for the most part were quite unexciting; yet, nevertheless, I listened to them with rapt attention, reluctant to lose a single word. This was for the good and sufficient reason that they came from him--from my Uncle Florimond--from my hero, the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. And after my grandmother had finished reading one of them, I would ask, “May I look at it, please?” To hold it between my fingers, and gaze upon it, exerted a vague, delightful fascination over me. To think that his own hand had touched this paper, had shaped these characters, less than a fortnight ago! My Uncle Florimond's very hand! It was wonderful!

I was born on the first of March, 1860; so that on the first of March, 1870, I became ten years of age. On the morning of that day, after breakfast, my grandmother called me to her room.

“Thou shalt have a holiday to-day,” she said; “no study, no lessons. But first, stay.”

She unlocked the lowest drawer of the big old-fashioned bureau-desk at which she used to write, and took from it something long and slender, wrapped up in chamois-skin. Then she undid and peeled off the chamois-skin wrapper, and showed me--what do you suppose? A beautiful golden-hilted sword, incased in a golden scabbard!

“Isn't it pretty?” she asked.

“Oh! lovely, superb,” I answered, all admiration and curiosity.

“Guess a little, _mon petit_, whom it belonged to?” she went on.

“To--oh! to my Uncle Florimond--I am sure,” I exclaimed.

“Right. To thy Uncle Florimond. It was presented to him by the king, by King Louis XVIII.”

“By the king--by the king!” I repeated wonderingly. “Just think!”

“Precisely. By the king himself, as a reward of valor and a token of his regard. And when I was married my brother gave it to me as a keepsake. And now--and now, my Gregory, I am going to give it to thee as a birthday present.”

“To me! Oh!” I cried. That was the most I could say. I was quite overcome by my surprise and my delight.

“Yes, I give it to thee; and we will hang it up in thy bed-chamber, on the wall opposite thy bed; and every night and every morning thou shalt look at it, and think of thy Uncle Florimond, and remember to be like him. So thy first and thy last thought every day shall be of him.”

I leave it to you to fancy how happy this present made me, how happy and how proud. For many years that sword was the most highly prized of all my goods and chattels. At this very moment it hangs on the wall in my study, facing the table at which I write these lines.

A day or two later, when I made my usual afternoon trip to the post-office, I found there a large, square brown-paper package, about the size of a school geography, postmarked Paris, and addressed, in my Uncle Florimond's handwriting, not to my grandmother, but to me! to my very self. “Monsieur Grégoire Brace, chez Madame Brace, Norwich Town, Connecticut, Etats-unis d'Amérique.” At first I could hardly believe my eyesight. Why should my Uncle Florimond address anything to me? What could it mean? And what could the contents of the mysterious parcel be? It never occurred to me to open it, and thus settle the question for myself; but, burning with curiosity, I hastened home, and putting it into my grandmother's hands, informed her how it had puzzled and astonished me. She opened it at once, I peering eagerly over her shoulder; and then both of us uttered an exclamation of delight. It was a large illustrated copy of my favorite story, “Paul et Virginie,” bound in scarlet leather, stamped and lettered in gold; and on the fly-leaf, in French, was written, “To my dear little nephew Gregory, on his tenth birthday with much love from his Uncle de la Bourbonnaye.” I can't tell you how this book pleased me. That my Uncle Florimond should care enough for me to send me such a lovely birthday gift! For weeks afterward I wanted no better entertainment than to read it, and to look at its pictures, and remember who had sent it to me. Of course, I sat right down and wrote the very nicest letter I possibly could, to thank him for it.