I have hinted to you several times that your presence at Issoudun might save your brother, and rescue a fortune of forty, perhaps sixty, thousand francs a year from the claws of that slut; but you either do not answer me, or you seem never to understand my meaning.  So to-day I am obliged to write without epistolary circumlocution.  I feel for the misfortune which has overtaken you, but, my dearest, I can do no more than pity you.  And this is why:  Hochon, at eighty-five years of age, takes four meals a day, eats a salad with hard-boiled eggs every night, and frisks about like a rabbit.  I shall have spent my whole life—­for he will live to write my epitaph—­without ever having had twenty francs in my purse.  If you will come to Issoudun and counteract the influence of that concubine over your brother, you must stay with me, for there are reasons why Rouget cannot receive you in his own house; but even then, I shall have hard work to get my husband to let me have you here.  However, you can safely come; I can make him mind me as to that.  I know a way to get what I want out of him; I have only to speak of making my will.  It seems such a horrid thing to do that I do not often have recourse to it; but for you, dear Agathe, I will do the impossible.

I hope your Philippe will get out of his trouble; and I beg you to employ a good lawyer.  In any case, come to Issoudun as soon as you can.  Remember that your imbecile of a brother at fifty-seven is an older and weaker man than Monsieur Hochon.  So it is a pressing matter.  People are talking already of a will that cuts off your inheritance; but Monsieur Hochon says there is still time to get it revoked.

  Adieu, my little Agathe; may God help you!  Believe in the love of
  your godmother,

  Maximilienne Hochon, nee Lousteau.

P.S.  Has my nephew, Etienne, who writes in the newspapers and is intimate, they tell me, with your son Philippe, been to pay his respects to you?  But come at once to Issoudun, and we will talk over things.

This letter made a great impression on Agathe, who showed it, of course, to Joseph, to whom she had been forced to mention Giroudeau’s proposal.  The artist, who grew wary when it concerned his brother, pointed out to her that she ought to tell everything to Desroches.

Conscious of the wisdom of that advice, Agathe went with her son the next morning, at six o’clock, to find Desroches at his house in the rue de Bussy.  The lawyer, as cold and stern as his late father, with a sharp voice, a rough skin, implacable eyes, and the visage of a fox as he licks his lips of the blood of chickens, bounded like a tiger when he heard of Giroudeau’s visit and proposal.