“He is just as capable of writing that note as I am of giving away twenty-five louis; it is the soldier who is corresponding with us!”

“What does that portend?” asked Madame Hochon.  “Well, never mind; we will answer him.  As for you, monsieur,” she added, turning to Joseph, “you must dine there; but if—­”

The old lady was stopped short by a look from her husband.  Knowing how warm a friendship she felt for Agathe, old Hochon was in dread lest she should leave some legacy to her goddaughter in case the latter lost the Rouget property.  Though fifteen years older than his wife, the miser hoped to inherit her fortune, and to become eventually the sole master of their whole property.  That hope was a fixed idea with him.  Madame Hochon knew that the best means of obtaining a few concessions from her husband was to threaten him with her will.  Monsieur Hochon now took sides with his guests.  An enormous fortune was at stake; with a sense of social justice, he wished it to go to the natural heirs, instead of being pillaged by unworthy outsiders.  Moreover, the sooner the matter was decided, the sooner he should get rid of his guests.  Now that the struggle between the interlopers and the heirs, hitherto existing only in his wife’s mind, had become an actual fact, Monsieur Hochon’s keen intelligence, lulled to sleep by the monotony of provincial life, was fully roused.  Madame Hochon had been agreeably surprised that morning to perceive, from a few affectionate words which the old man had said to her about Agathe, that so able and subtle an auxiliary was on the Bridau side.

Towards midday the brains of Monsieur and Madame Hochon, of Agathe, and Joseph (the latter much amazed at the scrupulous care of the old people in the choice of words), were delivered of the following answer, concocted solely for the benefit of Max and Flore:—­

My dear Brother,—­If I have stayed away from Issoudun, and kept up no intercourse with any one, not even with you, the fault lies not merely with the strange and false ideas my father conceived about me, but with the joys and sorrows of my life in Paris; for if God made me a happy wife, he has also deeply afflicted me as a mother.  You are aware that my son, your nephew Philippe, lies under accusation of a capital offence in consequence of his devotion to the Emperor.  Therefore you can hardly be surprised if a widow, compelled to take a humble situation in a lottery-office for a living, should come to seek consolation from those among whom she was born.

The profession adopted by the son who accompanies me is one that requires great talent, many sacrifices, and prolonged studies before any results can be obtained.  Glory for an artist precedes fortune; is not that to say that Joseph, though he may bring honor to the family, will still be poor?  Your sister, my dear Jean-Jacques, would have borne in silence the penalties of paternal injustice,