It was empty too.

In the farthest corner of the little dining room The Major, his face buried in his hands, laid upon the table in front of him, sat silently weeping.

He did not observe my entrance and I seated myself on the opposite side of the table.
Presently he looked up, and seeing me, without a word passed me a letter which, all blistered with tears, had brought him to this distressful state.

It was a formal French burial summons, with its long list of family names--his among the rest--the envelope, addressed in a lady's hand--his sister's, the wife of a nobleman in high military command--the postmark "Lyon." Uncle Celestin was dead.
Thereafter The Frenchman told me much which I may not recall and must not repeat; for, included in that funeral list were some of the best names in France, Uncle Celestin himself not the least of them.
At last he died, and as mysteriously as he had come his body was taken away, nobody knew when, nobody where, and with it went the beautiful woman, his wife, of whom from that day to this I have never heard a word..