FROM LEON VERDIER,IN PARIS,TO PROSPER GOBAIN,AT LILLE.
September 28th.
My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news,and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory.I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions,and je t'eu ai trop dit,dans le bon temps,mon gros Prosper,and you always listened to me too imperturbably,with your pipe in your mouth,your waistcoat unbuttoned,for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day.Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences--in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre a l'horizon was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper.As I tell thee,I am happy;decidedly,I am happy,and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest.Shall I help thee a little?Take three adorable girls ...three,my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less.Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them!Is the situation sufficiently indicated,and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity?
You expected,perhaps,I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune,or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature,after having constituted me his universal legatee.But I needn't remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness,and for a good deal more in his misery.But don't let me talk of misery now;time enough when it comes;ces demoiselles have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors.
Excuse me--I comprehend your impatience.I will tell you of whom ces demoiselles consist.
You have heard me speak of my cousine de Maisonrouge,that grande belle femme,who,after having married,en secondes noces--there had been,to tell the truth,some irregularity about her first union--a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou,was left,by the death of her husband,complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000francs,on the pavement of Paris,with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue.She managed to bring them up;my little cousins are rigidly virtuous.If you ask me how she managed it,I can't tell you;it's no business of mine,and,a fortiori none of yours.She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven),and her daughters,whom she has never been able to marry,are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen).Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of pension for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire--or of Zola.The idea lui a porte bonheur;the shop does a very good business.Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone;but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to he felt.My cousin has undertaken them,regardless of expense;she has asked me to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her pensionnaires.I am the extension,my good Prosper;I am the embellishment!I live for nothing,and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips.The English lips are not all pretty,heaven knows,but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me.
