“Restored!” cried Madame Cesar, falling on her knees beside a chair.  She joined her hands and said a prayer; as she did so, the letter slid from her fingers.  “Dear Anselme,” she said, crossing herself, “dear son!” She took his head in her hands, kissed him on the forehead, pressed him to her heart, and seemed for a moment beside herself.  “Cesarine is thine!  My daughter will be happy at last.  She can leave that shop where she is killing herself—­”

“For love?” said Popinot.

“Yes,” answered the mother, smiling.

“Listen to a little secret,” said Popinot, glancing at the fatal letter from a corner of his eye.  “I helped Celestin to buy your business; but I did it on one condition,—­your appartement was to be kept exactly as you left it.  I had an idea in my head, though I never thought that chance would favor it so much.  Celestin is bound to sub-let to you your old appartement, where he has never set foot, and where all the furniture will be yours.  I have kept the second story, where I shall live with Cesarine, who shall never leave you.  After our marriage I shall come and pass the days from eight in the morning till six in the evening here.  I will buy out Monsieur Cesar’s share in this business for a hundred thousand francs, and that will give you an income to live on.  Shall you not be happy?”

“Tell me no more, Anselme, or I shall go out of my mind.”

The angelic attitude of Madame Cesar, the purity of her eyes, the innocence of her candid brow, contradicted so gloriously the thoughts which surged in the lover’s brain that he resolved to make an end of their monstrosities forever.  Sin was incompatible with the life and sentiments of such a woman.

“My dear, adored mother,” said Anselme, “in spite of myself, a horrible suspicion has entered my soul.  If you wish to see me happy, you will put an end to it at once.”

Popinot stretched out his hand and picked up the letter.

“Without intending it,” he resumed, alarmed at the terror painted on Constance’s face, “I read the first words of this letter of du Tillet.  The words coincide in a singular manner with the power you have just shown in forcing that man to accept my absurd exactions; any man would explain it as the devil explains it to me, in spite of myself.  Your look—­three words suffice—­”

“Stop!” said Madame Cesar, taking the letter and burning it.  “My son, I am severely punished for a trifling error.  You shall know all, Anselme.  I shall not allow a suspicion inspired by her mother to injure my daughter; and besides, I can speak without blushing.  What I now tell you, I could tell my husband.  Du Tillet wished to seduce me; I informed my husband of it, and du Tillet was to have been dismissed.  On the very day my husband was about to send him away, he robbed us of three thousand francs.”

“I was sure of it!” said Popinot, expressing his hatred by the tones of his voice.