“You, and Joseph too, will always be unjust to that poor boy,” said the mother.  “His conduct before the Court of Peers was worthy of a statesman; he succeeded in saving many heads.  Philippe’s errors came from his great faculties being unemployed.  He now sees how faults of conduct injure the prospects of a man who has his way to make.  He is ambitious; that I am sure of; and I am not the only one to predict his future.  Monsieur Hochon firmly believes that Philippe has a noble destiny before him.”

“Oh! if he chooses to apply his perverted powers to making his fortune, I have no doubt he will succeed:  he is capable of everything; and such fellows go fast and far,” said Desroches.

“Why do you suppose that he will not succeed by honest means?” demanded Madame Bridau.

“You will see!” exclaimed Desroches.  “Fortunate or unfortunate, Philippe will remain the man of the rue Mazarin, the murderer of Madame Descoings, the domestic thief.  But don’t worry yourself; he will manage to appear honest to the world.”

After breakfast, on the morning succeeding the marriage, Philippe took Madame Rouget by the arm when his uncle rose from table and went upstairs to dress,—­for the pair had come down, the one in her morning-robe, and the other in his dressing-gown.

“My dear aunt,” said the colonel, leading her into the recess of a window, “you now belong to the family.  Thanks to me, the law has tied the knot.  Now, no nonsense.  I intend that you and I should play above board.  I know the tricks you will try against me; and I shall watch you like a duenna.  You will never go out of this house except on my arm; and you will never leave me.  As to what passes within the house, damn it, you’ll find me like a spider in the middle of his web.  Here is something,” he continued, showing the bewildered woman a letter, “which will prove to you that I could, while you were lying ill upstairs, unable to move hand or foot, have turned you out of doors without a penny.  Read it.”

He gave her the letter.

My dear Fellow,—­Florentine, who has just made her debut at the new Opera House in a “pas de trois” with Mariette and Tullia, is thinking steadily about your affair, and so is Florine,—­who has finally given up Lousteau and taken Nathan.  That shrewd pair have found you a most delicious little creature,—­only seventeen, beautiful as an English woman, demure as a “lady,” up to all mischief, sly as Desroches, faithful as Godeschal.  Mariette is forming her, so as to give you a fair chance.  No woman could hold her own against this little angel, who is a devil under her skin; she can play any part you please; get complete possession of your uncle, or drive him crazy with love.  She has that celestial look poor Coralie used to have; she can weep,—­the tones of her voice will draw a thousand-franc note from a granite heart; and the young mischief soaks up champagne better than any of us.  It is a precious discovery; she