purse. For three years she had waited in expectation of his coming to
see her; she now imagined that if she made an appeal to him he would
bring some enormous sum; and her thoughts dwelt on the happiness she
should feel in giving it to Joseph, whose judgment of his brother,
like that of Madame Descoings, was so unfair.

Saying nothing to Joseph, she wrote the following letter to
Philippe:--

To Monsieur le comte de Brambourg:

My dear Philippe,--You have not given the least little word of
remembrance to your mother for five years. That is not right. You
should remember the past, if only for the sake of your excellent
brother. Joseph is now in need of money, and you are floating in
wealth; he works, while you are flying from fete to fete. You now
possess, all to yourself, the property of my brother. Little
Borniche tells me you cannot have less than two hundred thousand
francs a year. Well, then, come and see Joseph. During your visit,
slip into the skull a few thousand-franc notes. Philippe, you owe
them to us; nevertheless, your brother will feel grateful to you,
not to speak of the happiness you will give

Your mother,

Agathe Bridau, nee Rouget

Two days later the concierge brought to the atelier, where poor Agathe
was breakfasting with Joseph, the following terrible letter:--

My dear Mother,--A man does not marry a Mademoiselle Amelie de
Soulanges without the purse of Fortunatus, if under the name of
Comte de Brambourg he hides that of

Your son,

Philippe Bridau

As Agathe fell half-fainting on the sofa, the letter dropped to the
floor. The slight noise made by the paper, and the smothered but
dreadful exclamation which escaped Agathe startled Joseph, who had
forgotten his mother for a moment and was vehemently rubbing in a
sketch; he leaned his head round the edge of his canvas to see what
had happened. The sight of his mother stretched out on the floor made
him drop palette and brushes, and rush to lift what seemed a lifeless
body. He took Agathe in his arms and carried her to her own bed, and
sent the servant for his friend Horace Bianchon. As soon as he could
question his mother she told him of her letter to Philippe, and of the
answer she had received from him. The artist went to his atelier and
picked up the letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender
heart of the poor mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her
maternal preference had er