"Several years passed. Some of those talkative people who take delight in interfering in everything, and who had seen Monsieur Adhémar de Hautmont in Paris when his relations thought that he was in Vienna, did not fail to inform them that the young man was in Paris and had a mistress there. The relations ordered Adhémar to return to Toulouse, but he was then of age and master of his actions, and he paid no attention to the commands which they attempted to impose on him. But he had one great-uncle, who was very old and very rich, and who was very fond of him; this uncle was expected to leave him his whole fortune. Your father often said to his sweetheart:
"'I don't dare to marry you while he is alive, for it might make him angry with me and deprive us of a large fortune hereafter. But when he is dead, there will be nothing to delay our union'; and your mother, who was very, very happy because your father still loved her as much as ever, replied: 'Do just as you think best, my dear; my daughter and I will always be content, so long as we have your love; to us that is the greatest of blessings.'
"At last, a few days before his disappearance, your father learned that his great-uncle had become more indulgent; that he seemed disposed to forgive his nephew his secret love-affair. Adhémar instantly set about procuring from his native place all the documents that he required for his marriage, saying to your mother:
"'As soon as the ceremony is at an end, we will start for Italy with our little Agathe. We will pass a year there and then return to France, where my family, knowing that you are my wife, will understand that there is nothing for them to do but to forgive me, and to love you when they know you.'
"That, my dear Agathe, is the whole story of your mother's love. Many women bear their lover's name without right, and assume in society the title of lawful wife; your mother would never have stooped to do that. The name of Montoni was her father's; it is the only one she has left you. Poor Agathe! why did fate decree that, just when you were on the point of obtaining a noble name, when a brilliant future opened out before you, he to whom you were to owe it all should suddenly disappear?"
"Dear Honorine," said Agathe, "the name and wealth are not what I regret, but my father's love, my father's kisses—But what is it that you have to give me?"
"The letters he wrote to your mother when he was away from her, which she always preserved with care."
"Oh! what joy! my father's letters! Give them to me! give them to me!"
Honorine took from her desk a small package which she had kept in safety there, and handed it to Agathe.
She received with a trembling hand the only heritage her father had left her; she hastily opened one of the letters, put her lips to it and wet it with her tears as she faltered: