“I saw your Madame Firmiani yesterday,” went on the old fellow, kissing the tips of his fingers, which he gathered into a bunch. “She is charming. You have the consent and approbation of your uncle, if that will do you any good. As to the sanction of the Church I suppose that’s useless, and the sacraments cost so much in these days. Come, speak out, have you ruined yourself for her?” “Yes, uncle.” “Ha! the jade! I’d have wagered it. In my time the women of the court were cleverer at ruining a man than the courtesans of to-day; but this one--I recognized her!--it is a bit of the last century.” “Uncle,” said Octave, with a manner that was tender and grave, “you are totally mistaken. Madame Firmiani deserves your esteem, and all the adoration the world gives her.” “Youth, youth! always the same!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne. “Well, go on; tell me the same old story. But please remember that my experience in gallantry is not of yesterday.” “My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell you nearly all,” said Octave, taking it from an elegant portfolio, _her_ gift, no doubt. “When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you will then know a Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world.” “I haven’t my spectacles; read it aloud.” Octave began:-- “‘My beloved--’” “Hey, then you are still intimate with her?” interrupted his uncle. “Why yes, of course.” “You haven’t parted from her?” “Parted!” repeated Octave, “we are married.” “Heavens!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, “then why do you live in a garret?” “Let me go on.” “True--I’m listening.” Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could not read without deep emotion. “‘My beloved Husband,--You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed it?--but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I cannot deceive you; this may be a misfortune, for it is one of the conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay and caressing. Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but I would not do it even if the happiness with which you have blessed and overpowered me depended on it. “‘Ah! dearest, how much gratitude there is in my love. I long to love you forever, without limit; yes, I desire to be forever proud of you. A woman’s glory is in the man she loves. Esteem, consideration, honor, must they not be his who receives our all? Well, my angel has fallen. Yes, dear, the tale you told me has tarnished my past joys. Since then I have felt myself humiliated in you,--you whom I thought the most honorable of men, as you are the most loving, the most tender. I must indeed have deep confidence in your heart, so young and pure, to make you this avowal which costs me much. Ah! my dear love, how is it that you, knowing your father had unjustly deprived others of their property, that YOU can keep it?