you,
but, my dearest, I can do no more than pity you. And this is why:
Hochon, at eighty-five years of age, takes four meals a day, eats
a salad with hard-boiled eggs every night, and frisks about like a
rabbit. I shall have spent my whole life--for he will live to
write my epitaph--without ever having had twenty francs in my
purse. If you will come to Issoudun and counteract the influence
of that concubine over your brother, you must stay with me, for
there are reasons why Rouget cannot receive you in his own house;
but even then, I shall have hard work to get my husband to let me
have you here. However, you can safely come; I can make him mind
me as to that. I know a way to get what I want out of him; I have
only to speak of making my will. It seems such a horrid thing to
do that I do not often have recourse to it; but for you, dear
Agathe, I will do the impossible.

I hope your Philippe will get out of his trouble; and I beg you to
employ a good lawyer. In any case, come to Issoudun as soon as you
can. Remember that your imbecile of a brother at fifty-seven is an
older and weaker man than Monsieur Hochon. So it is a pressing
matter. People are talking already of a will that cuts off your
inheritance; but Monsieur Hochon says there is still time to get
it revoked.

Adieu, my little Agathe; may God help you! Believe in the love of
your godmother,

Maximilienne Hochon, nee Lousteau.

P.S. Has my nephew, Etienne, who writes in the newspapers and is
intimate, they tell me, with your son Philippe, been to pay his
respects to you? But come at once to Issoudun, and we will talk
over things.

This letter made a great impression on Agathe, who showed it, of course,
to Joseph, to whom she had been forced to mention Giroudeau's proposal.
The artist, who grew wary when it concerned his brother, pointed out to
her that she ought to tell everything to Desroches.

Conscious of the wisdom of that advice, Agathe went with her son the
next morning, at six o'clock, to find Desroches at his house in the rue
de Bussy. The lawyer, as cold and stern as his late father, with a sharp
voice, a rough skin, implacable eyes, and the visage of a fox as he
licks his lips of the blood of chickens, bounded like a tiger when he
heard of Giroudeau's visit and proposal.

"And pray, mere Bridau," he cried, in his little cracked voice, "how
long are you going to be duped by your cursed b