The nephew looked at the uncle, who lowered his head.
"'I will not tell you all the thoughts that assail me; they can be reduced to one,--this is it: I cannot respect the man who, knowingly, is smirched for a sum of money, whatever the amount may be; five francs stolen at play or five times a hundred thousand gained by a legal trick are equally dishonoring. I will tell you all. I feel myself degraded by the very love which has hitherto been all my joy. There rises in my soul a voice which my tenderness cannot stifle. Ah! I have wept to feel that I have more conscience than love. Were you to commit a crime I would hide you in my bosom from human justice, but my devotion could go no farther. Love, to a woman, means boundless confidence, united to a need of reverencing, of esteeming, the being to whom she belongs.
I have never conceived of love otherwise than as a fire in which all noble feelings are purified still more,--a fire which develops them.
"'I have but one thing else to say: come to me poor, and my love shall be redoubled. If not, renounce it. Should I see you no more, I shall know what it means.
"'But I do not wish, understand me, that you should make restitution because I urge it. Consult your own conscience. An act of justice such as that ought not to be a sacrifice made to love.
I am your wife and not your mistress, and it is less a question of pleasing me than of inspiring in my soul a true respect.
"'If I am mistaken, if you have ill-explained your father's action, if, in short, you still think your right to the property equitable (oh! how I long to persuade myself that you are blameless), consider and decide by listening to the voice of your conscience; act wholly and solely from yourself. A man who loves a woman sincerely, as you love me, respects the sanctity of her trust in him too deeply to dishonor himself.
"'I blame myself now for what I have written; a word might have sufficed, and I have preached to you! Scold me; I wish to be scolded,--but not much, only a little. Dear, between us two the power is yours--you alone should perceive your own faults.'"
"Well, uncle?" said Octave, whose eyes were full of tears.
"There's more in the letter; finish it."
"Oh, the rest is only to be read by a lover," answered Octave, smiling.
"Yes, right, my boy," said the old man, gently. "I have had many affairs in my day, but I beg you to believe that I too have loved, 'et ego in Arcardia.' But I don't understand yet why you give lessons in mathematics."
"My dear uncle, I am your nephew; isn't that as good as saying that I had dipped into the capital left me by my father? After I had read this letter a sort of revolution took place within me. I paid my whole arrearage of remorse in one day. I cannot describe to you the state I was in. As I drove in the Bois a voice called to me, 'That horse is not yours'; when I ate my dinner it was saying, 'You have stolen this food.' I was ashamed. The fresher my honesty, the more intense it was.
I rushed to Madame Firmiani. Uncle! that day I had pleasures of the heart, enjoyments of the soul, that were far beyond millions. Together we made out the account of what was due to the Bourgneufs, and I condemned myself, against Madame Firmiani's advice, to pay three per cent interest. But all I had did not suffice to cover the full amount.
We were lovers enough for her to offer, and me to accept, her savings--"
"What! besides her other virtues does that adorable woman lay by money?" cried his uncle.
