She gave me a scrap of the letter I had sent the daughter, with the fifty louis for her brother. It contained the following lines,
“I hope that these wretched louis will convince you that I am ready to sacrifice everything, my life if need be, to assure you of my affection.”
“I am far from disavowing this evidence of my esteem for your daughter, but to justify myself I am obliged to tell you a fact which I should have otherwise kept secret—namely, that I furnished your daughter with this sum to enable her to pay your son’s debts, for which he thanked me in a letter which I can shew you.”
“My son?”
“Your son, madam.”
“I will make you an ample atonement for my suspicions.”
Before I had time to make any objection, she ran down to fetch Farsetti, who was waiting in the courtyard, and made him come up and hear what I had just told her.
“That’s not a likely tale,” said the insolent fellow.
I looked at him contemptuously, and told him he was not worth convincing, but that I would beg the lady to ask her son and see whether I told the truth.
“I assure you,” I added, “that I always urged your daughter to marry M. de la Popeliniere.”