Epistolary fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Married women -- Fiction
"My dear," he began, "you will have to get yourself clothes, and to make
these rooms comfortable. In this purse you will find twelve thousand
francs, which is the yearly income I purpose allowing you for your
expenses. You will make arrangements with your mother as to some
governess whom you may like, in case Miss Griffith doesn't please
you, for Mme. de Chaulieu will not have time to go out with you in the
mornings. A carriage and man-servant shall be at your disposal."
"Let me keep Philippe," I said.
"So be it," he replied. "But don't be uneasy; you have money enough of
your own to be no burden either to your mother or me."
"May I ask how much I have?"
"Certainly, my child," he said. "Your grandmother left you five hundred
thousand francs; this was the amount of her savings, for she would not
alienate a foot of land from the family. This sum has been placed in
Government stock, and, with the accumulated interest, now brings in
about forty thousand francs a year. With this I had purposed making an
independence for your second brother, and it is here that you have upset
my plans. Later, however, it is possible that you may fall in with them.
It shall rest with yourself, for I have confidence in your good sense
far more than I had expected.
"I do not need to tell you how a daughter of the Chaulieus ought
to behave. The pride so plainly written in your features is my best
guarantee. Safeguards, such as common folk surround their daughters
with, would be an insult in our family. A slander reflecting on your
name might cost the life of the man bold enough to utter it, or the life
of one of your brothers, if by chance the right should not prevail. No
more on this subject. Good-bye, little one."
He kissed me on the forehead and went out. I cannot understand the
relinquishment of this plan after nine years' persistence in it. My
father's frankness is what I like. There is no ambiguity about his
words. My money ought to belong to his Marquis son. Who, then, has had
bowels of mercy? My mother? My father? Or could it be my brother?
I remained sitting on my grandmother's sofa, staring at the purse which
my father had left on the mantelpiece, at once pleased and vexed that
I could not withdraw my mind from the money. It is true, further
speculation was useless. My doubts had been cleared up and there was
something fine in the way my pride was spared.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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