Amongst my London letters I found two from the infamous mother of the infamous Charpillon, and one from the girl herself. The first of the mother’s letters, written before I was ill, told me that her daughter was ill in bed, covered with bruises from the blows I had given her, so that she would be obliged to institute legal proceedings against me. In the second letter she said she had heard I too was ill, and that she was sorry to hear it, her daughter having informed her that I had some reason for my anger; however, she would not fail to justify herself on the first opportunity. The Charpillon said in her letter that she knew she had done wrong, and that she wondered I had not killed her when I took her by the throat. She added that no doubt I had made up my mind to visit her no more, but she hoped I would allow her one interview as she had an important communication to make to me. There was also a note from Goudar, saying that he wanted to speak to me, and that he would come at noon. I gave orders that he should be admitted. This curious individual began by astonishing me; he told me the whole story of what had taken place, the mother having been his informant. “The Charpillon,” he added, “has not got a fever, but is covered with bruises. What grieves the old woman most is that she has not got the hundred guineas.” “She would have had them the next morning,” I said, “if her daughter had been tractable.” “Her mother had made her swear that she would not be tractable, and you need not hope to possess her without the mother’s consent.” “Why won’t she consent?” “Because she thinks that you will abandon the girl as soon as you have enjoyed her.” “Possibly, but she would have received many valuable presents, and now she is abandoned and has nothing.” “Have you made up your mind not to have anything more to do with her?” “Quite.” “That’s your wisest plan, and I advise you to keep to it, nevertheless I want to shew you something which will surprise you. I will be back in a moment.” He returned, followed by a porter, who carried up an arm-chair covered with a cloth. As soon as we were alone, Goudar took off the covering and asked me if I would buy it. “What should I do with it? It is not a very attractive piece of furniture.” “Nevertheless, the price of it is a hundred guineas.” “I would not give three.” “This arm-chair has five springs, which come into play all at once as soon as anyone sits down in it. Two springs catch the two arms and hold them tightly, two others separate the legs, and the fifth lifts up the seat.” After this description Goudar sat down quite naturally in the chair and the springs came into play and forced him into the position of a woman in labour. “Get the fair Charpillon to sit in this chair,” said he, “and your business is done.” I could not help laughing at the contrivance, which struck me as at once ingenious and diabolical, but I could not make up my mind to avail myself of it.