“My Dear Jean” (his aunt had written), “This is indeed sad news which your uncle tells me! We do not quite know what to say about it; he has asked me to write in his place, as he is bothered with some affairs. Of course, it was my natural instinct to go to you at once, but I hear from your Uncle Romain that it is quite impossible for me to do so. You will understand this, I know, for though you have unfortunately been led into a connection which is quite beneath you, you would hardly wish your aunt to enter into the house of such a person.
“My poor boy, I fear you have fallen into the little trap your uncle warned you about some time ago, and that your illness has put you under the very obligation we were so anxious to save you from! It is not very agreeable for us, as you may fancy, to hear all over Paris that our nephew is being kept at the expense of a young person of the theatre, who has had—so I hear—to pawn the furniture to support him during his illness! But do not fancy that I write to reproach you. I feel that in spite of your rather ungrateful disregard of our little plans for you in the past, as if on this very account perhaps, you might more readily listen to a new suggestion.
“Do, my dear Jean, while there is yet time, leave the house of this disreputable little person and return to your Aunt Anne for awhile. The country air will do you all the good in the world, and you might interest yourself usefully in looking after your little estate. Let me hear directly you are well enough to do this; and I will send your uncle’s valet to meet you at the railway station with money for your ticket, as I fear, from the reports your uncle has received, that you must be very short of money.
“Your Uncle Romain joins me in sending his sympathetic condolences with you in your illness. With every good wish for your speedy recovery and your future well-being,
“Believe me, dear Jean,
“Your affectionate aunt,
“Marie Agnes D’Ucelles.”
It was perhaps unfortunate for Madame D’Ucelles’ purpose that Romain had not been present to read this letter; if he had it would certainly have not been sent. Marie had forgotten his advice, that one should never be disagreeable until after one had lost one’s cause.
Jean read the letter three times over before he could persuade himself that it was real. His mind and body alike rebelled against this new brutality of pain. He could not feel as if it were meant for him, or as if it were about Margot. His tender, faithful Margot, whose heart was as pure as a spring flower, defying in its fragile bloom even the dust of Paris. It might indeed be broken, but it could not be stained.
His aunt’s words made him blush hotly and fiercely for her. He was not given to judging harshly of women; but he was ashamed of his aunt, it would have astonished Madame D’Ucelles as much as it would have enraged her, if she had known that Jean thought her a very bad woman. Then he felt a fresh pang. Was it true that Margot had had to pawn her things? He rose slowly to his feet and staggered to the door. His little room seemed very large and strange to him, and the passage outside seemed to stretch into eternity, but his suspense and excitement gave him strength. He opened the door of the living-room and staggered back against the wall. It was quite empty. There was no table, no handsome dresser covered with shining pots and pans, no armchair for Madame Selba, nothing there at all, except a box on which there lay two eggs and a half-mixed pudding for Jean’s dinner. The shelves in the little larder were quite bare. He went on into the room beyond; his eyes could hardly see, for they were covered by a mist of tears; there was only a mattress and some bed-clothes under Margot’s little stoup of holy water, and she had fitted up another box for a dressing-table. The mirror was gone, and she had nothing but a hand glass to help her make her careful toilet in the morning.