Philippe, you owe
them to us; nevertheless, your brother will feel grateful to you,
not to speak of the happiness you will give
Your mother,
Agathe Bridau, nee Rouget
Two days later the concierge brought to the atelier, where poor Agathe
was breakfasting with Joseph, the following terrible letter:--
My dear Mother,--A man does not marry a Mademoiselle Amelie de
Soulanges without the purse of Fortunatus, if under the name of
Comte de Brambourg he hides that of
Your son,
Philippe Bridau
As Agathe fell half-fainting on the sofa, the letter dropped to the
floor. The slight noise made by the paper, and the smothered but
dreadful exclamation which escaped Agathe startled Joseph, who had
forgotten his mother for a moment and was vehemently rubbing in a
sketch; he leaned his head round the edge of his canvas to see what
had happened. The sight of his mother stretched out on the floor made
him drop palette and brushes, and rush to lift what seemed a lifeless
body. He took Agathe in his arms and carried her to her own bed, and
sent the servant for his friend Horace Bianchon. As soon as he could
question his mother she told him of her letter to Philippe, and of the
answer she had received from him. The artist went to his atelier and
picked up the letter, whose concise brutality had broken the tender
heart of the poor mother, and shattered the edifice of trust her
maternal preference had erected.
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