“But,” you will say, “it is always well to know with whom one is dealing; in fact, it is customary to begin with that.”—That is true; but I care little about doing as others do, and, moreover, it seems to me that these never-ending stories of births and family anecdotes are not adapted to afford you much amusement; for that reason, I shall be very brief.
My name is Eugène Dorsan; I am of a Parisian family; my father was a king’s attorney [procureur]; they say avoué now, a title which lends itself less readily to pleasantry. However, my father was a very honorable man, so I have always been told, and I have never doubted it. He earned a great deal of money, to his credit be it said; but he died young, wherein he made a mistake; especially as his death was the result of overwork. My mother was left a widow with two children: my sister Amélie, my senior by a year, and your humble servant. Madame Dorsan was rich; she was in a position to marry again, but she preferred to retain her freedom; she was wise both on her own account and on ours; for, in my opinion, marriage, while a most excellent thing, should be used in moderation.
My sister and I received a good education. We made the most of it, especially my sister, who is naturally amiable, kindly, and gentle, and whose only aim was to satisfy her teachers, and to demonstrate to her mother her affection and her obedience. For my part, I am no phoenix, but I have no glaring faults. My predominant passion is the love which women arouse in me; but as that passion could not develop in my childhood, it did not impede my progress.
My mother had bought a beautiful country estate near Melun, and we spent the summer there. Our childhood and youth passed away without accident or trouble, without any important occurrences, and, I may say also, without sorrow or tribulation. Indeed, what sources of affliction can one encounter before the age of fifteen, when one is surrounded by wealthy and generous kindred?
How I pity the poor wretches reared in poverty by parents whom misfortune often makes stern and unfeeling! Even in the days of innocence, they know the afflictions of maturity; what a pitiable apprenticeship to life!
At the age of sixteen my sister married a young man of twenty-four, a steady, orderly youth and a tremendous worker, who owned a cotton mill at Melun. Three years after the wedding, our mother died. She had economized in the interest of her children, and she left us ten thousand a year each. Amélie, now Madame Déneterre, and her husband took up their abode in our country house; and I returned to Paris, partly to seek diversion from my grief at my mother’s death, and partly to complete my acquaintance with the world.
Six years had passed since then, and I had become so attached to the seductive capital that I spent only six weeks, in the summer, with my sister. I had not yet been to her that year, and I assumed that that was why she was writing to me. That dear sister of mine, knowing that I was not over-virtuous, was exceedingly anxious that I should marry, in the hope that that would put an end to my follies; and every summer I found at her house a new young woman, very pretty and sweet and well bred, possessed of abundant talents and attractions and a very respectable dowry. She was presented to me without affectation, but I knew what was in the air. But, despite the attentions of her parents, the eloquent sermons from my sister on the joys of wedded life, and the sighs and sidelong glances of the young lady herself, I took my leave at the end of six weeks without making a declaration.
“Patience!” my sister would say to her husband; “next year, I’ll find one who will turn his head, I’ll wager.”
“So be it!” Déneterre would reply tranquilly; “we’ll put it off till next year.”
Now, let us read my sister’s letter: