When I was growing up in Havre, my family was very poor. My father worked long hours to support our family. We ate the same food every day, saved where we could, and tried our best to keep up appearances. Every Sunday, we would put on our best clothes and go for a walk by the sea. My parents would walk at the back with great dignity. My sisters, both of marriageable age, would stride ahead, hoping to attract the right people. On those days, when we saw the ships returning from distant countries, my father would remark: “What a surprise it would be if Jules were on that one! Eh?”
My uncle Jules was the black sheep of the family. He had squandered both his inheritance and my father’s, before setting forth for America. There, he set up a business in New York and wrote to say that he would soon repay my father. The news caused a dramatic change. Once regarded as a hopeless case by all, Uncle Jules was now considered a good and honest man, like all the other Davranches. “When I am wealthy, I shall return to Havre,” he promised in another letter. “I hope it won’t be too long and that we shall all live happily together.”
That letter was pulled out and read at every opportunity. The more time passed, the more hopeful my family became. After all, our dreams were built on the wealth of Uncle Jules.
A few years later, one of my sisters got married to a clerk—a man whom I suspect to have seen the letter—and my family celebrated by going on a rare holiday together. On the ship bound for Jersey, we saw an old man shucking oysters for the passengers.
“That man looks extraordinarily like Jules,” my father muttered to my mother.
Astonished, my mother went to take a closer look. She, too, turned pale as a sheet. My father then asked the captain for more information.
The captain said, “He’s a tramp whom I met in America. He’s avoiding his family in Havre because he owes them money. I think his name is Jules—Jules Darmanche or Darvanche, or something like that.”
“It’s he! What should we do?” moaned my father.
My mother, suddenly furious, exclaimed, “I knew that thief would remain useless! What else can we expect from a Davranche!”
Only the three of us were in the know. Determined to keep it that way, my parents handed me five francs and asked me to pay for the oysters discreetly.
“How much do we owe you, monsieur?” I asked.
“Two francs fifty,” he replied.
I handed him the money and received change from his poor wrinkled hand. I looked at his old and unhappy face, and I, too, saw my uncle. Unable to help myself, I gave him back fifty centimes.
“Thank you so much, young sir!” he said gratefully, without recognising me.
“Are you insane?” my mother exclaimed when I returned with two francs. “Giving a tip to that man—”
My father pointed at his son-in-law. Everyone fell silent. As we drew closer to Jersey, I wanted desperately to see my Uncle Jules again and to console him with tender words, but he had long disappeared below the deck.