‘Forgive me, _chérie_,’ he said, ‘the man may say what he likes of me, but I cannot bear that he shall insult my wife. Listen, Madeline,’ he continued, drawing her down upon a seat beside him, ‘I will correct your bad news with good news, though I did not intend to tell you so soon; well, my wife, after all you did not marry a poor man. I have had a good sum of money left to me and a fine house in Paris--and I am going to dress you in a fashion becoming to a rich man’s wife, and take you to Paris for the season. You understand me?’ For the girl was looking at him as if she comprehended nothing, and now she only said-- ‘Leave me a few minutes alone.’ He kissed her and led her to the door, as if his only wish in life was to bow to her will. A few hours after, when husband and wife met again, Madeline seemed to be transformed into a different being. She walked straight up to her husband, put her hand into his, and said-- ‘When are we going to Paris, Monsieur?’ He smiled strangely. ‘You are eager to be gone?’ ‘Yes, I could not bear to continue this quiet life _now_.’ ‘Madeline!’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You were not yourself this morning, so I did not tell you all my news. Are you composed enough to listen to me now?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, then, there is a condition attached to the will which left me all the money--a condition to which I fear you will not be inclined to accede, _chérie_.’ Madeline raised her eyes to his. ‘You have told me the news at a proper time then, Monsieur; I feel inclined to accede to anything to-day.’ ‘My wife,’ said the Frenchman gravely, ‘I would not ask you to accede to anything wrong. Well, the words in the will are these: “Five thousand pounds to my dear nephew, Emile Belleisle, if he is unwed. If he remain unwed for one year after my decease, the sum of three thousand pounds to be paid to him annually during his life. If he marries within the year the said three thousand pounds per annum to be paid to the State.” Now when my beloved relative died I was a single man--when the news came to me I had been married two days. Perhaps it was avaricious of me; but as I was so wretchedly poor I could not bear the thought of three thousand pounds per annum being taken from me and given to the State; so I thought, “I will say nothing of being married; I will take my Madeline to the seaside, and live quietly with her until the year is expired, and then the money will be mine to pour at her feet.”’ ‘And what has induced you to change your mind?’ ‘My beloved one, you shall hear. I made a confidante of my good aunt, Madame de Fontenay, and, though she loves you not as I do, her woman’s heart did you more justice. She said, “Why should the child suffer because you have come into a fortune? She has a good heart and generous impulses. Tell her--throw yourself upon her mercy--and let her enjoy your good fortune to the full.”’