"
"Youth, youth! always the same!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne. "Well,
go on; tell me the same old story. But please remember that my
experience in gallantry is not of yesterday."
"My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell you nearly
all," said Octave, taking it from an elegant portfolio, _her_ gift, no
doubt. "When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you will
then know a Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world."
"I haven't my spectacles; read it aloud."
Octave began:--
"'My beloved--'"
"Hey, then you are still intimate with her?" interrupted his uncle.
"Why yes, of course."
"You haven't parted from her?"
"Parted!" repeated Octave, "we are married."
"Heavens!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, "then why do you live in a
garret?"
"Let me go on."
"True--I'm listening."
Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could not
read without deep emotion.
"'My beloved Husband,--You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has
it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed
it?--but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I
cannot deceive you; this may be a misfortune, for it is one of the
conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay and caressing.
Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but I would not do it even if the
happiness with which you have blessed and overpowered me depended
on it.
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