You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee.  But I needn’t remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee—­for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery.  But don’t let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; ces demoiselles have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors.  Excuse me—­I comprehend your impatience.  I will tell you of whom ces demoiselles consist.

You have heard me speak of my cousine de Maisonrouge, that grande belle femme, who, after having married, en secondes noces—­there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union—­a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue.  She managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous.  If you ask me how she managed it, I can’t tell you; it’s no business of mine, and, a fortiori none of yours.  She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen).  Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of pension for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire—­or of Zola.  The idea lui a porte bonheur; the shop does a very good business.  Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt.  My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her—­board and lodging gratis—­and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her pensionnaires.  I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment!  I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips.  The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me.

Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate pairs.  The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra.  My cousin doesn’t give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated.  But I am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs.  One of them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty—­a little figure de keepsake; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld.