"Ah! you will laugh at me—the poor girl I love can neither read nor write."
"What a happy mortal you are! You are spared the lengthy epistles I am forced to endure from a little shop girl whom I have robbed from a jealous banker. I amuse myself by making her the rage, and enjoy the poor creature's ecstasies immensely! It is so delightful to make others happy. Her grammar is outrageous, however. Ah! my friend, what orthography! it is of the antediluvian, innocent style; such as Mother Eve must have used—but if your Mariette cannot write, who knows but her secretary may have misinterpreted her thoughts?"
"With what object?"
"I don't know. But why not have an explanation with her?"
"She has begged me, in the name of her future happiness, not to see her again."
"Well, now that you are a prospective millionaire, I would advise you to see her in the name of that very future happiness."
"You are right, Florestan; I shall see her, and if this cruel mystery can be explained, if I find her as in the past, affectionate and devoted, what bliss shall be mine! Poor child, her life has been one of work and misery; but she will now find comfort and rest, for my father shall consent, and—Ah! my God!—"
"What is it?" asked Florestan, anxiously.
"I have forgotten to tell you that my father wishes me to marry your cousin."
"What cousin?"