shes for parting. How much egotism!
I have another project which I please myself to arrange. You know how
I am arrived to love Clive as own my child. I very quick surprised his
secret, the poor boy, when he was here it is twenty months. He looked
so like you as I repeal me of you in the old time! He told me he had no
hope of his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage that one
makes her. Paul, my son, has been at the English Ambassade last night
and has made his congratulations to M. de Farintosh. Paul says him
handsome, young, not too spiritual, rich, and haughty, like all, all
noble Montagnards.

"But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage, without
doubt, has been announced to you. I have a little project; very foolish,
perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry has left me guardian of his
little daughter Antoinette, whose affreuse mother no one sees more.
Antoinette is pretty and good, and soft, and with an affectionate heart.
I love her already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and that Clive
should marry her. They say you are returned very rich. What follies are
these I write! In the long evenings of winter, the children escaped
it is a long time from the maternal nest, a silent old man my only
company,--I live but of the past; and play with its souvenirs as the
detained caress little birds, little flowers, in their prisons. I was
born for the happiness; my God! I have learned it in knowing you. In
losing you I have lost it. It is not against the will of Heaven I oppose
myself. It is man, who makes himself so much of this evil and misery,
this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps.

"This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair Ethel (I love
her in spite of all, and shall see her soon and congratulate her, for,
do you see, I might have stopped this fine marriage, and did my best and
more than my duty for our poor Clive) shall make itself in London next
spring, I hear. You shall assist scarcely at the ceremony; he, poor boy,
shall not care to be there. Bring him to Paris to make the court to my
little Antoinette: bring him to Paris to his good friend, Comtesse de
Florac."

"I read marvels of his works in an English journal, which one sends me."

Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive was in his
painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and in order to devise
the best means of breaking the news to the lad, Thomas Newcome retreated
out of doors