I have to inform you, my dear fellow, that my uncle, who has always been admired so far for his virtuous conduct, and whom I should certainly have been ready to quote as a paragon of husbands, seems just now on the way to forfeiting his character.

Here is what I have to relate:

Two days ago I went to the Theatre des Varietés to see for the second time the play which is just now the rage. Not having obtained a good place, I left my stall at the end of the first act with the intention of not returning, when, as I passed a rather closely-curtained stage-box, I was quite surprised by seeing Barbassou-Pasha, who had pretended to be going out that evening to an important dinner with some business friends. He was accompanied by a lady whose features were obscured by the darkness.

Being a discreet and respectful nephew, I was about to turn my eyes the other way, when he beckoned me with an imperative gesture to join him in his box. I immediately obeyed this peremptory summons, and, going round by the passage, got the box-opener to usher me in.

“Come in, and sit down,” said my uncle, pointing out to me a chair behind him.

Once more I obeyed him, bowing politely to the lady, whose features I could not clearly distinguish. I was hardly seated when I recognised the fair heroine of the fainting fit last week.

Exquisitely attired in a perfectly ravishing costume, Madame Jean Bonaffe replied to my compliments by a charming smile, and a pretty glance from her fine Spanish eyes, which showed me clearly that she was troubled by no remnants of that sudden indisposition which the too unexpected encounter with my uncle had produced.

Our conversation turned upon the play. As she spoke French rather badly (although she understood it very well), she asked my uncle from time to time to tell her the words she was in need of. This he did, pronouncing them with grammatical deliberation, and then leaving us to talk alone, while he surveyed the audience like one superior to such frivolities as feminine smalltalk.

My companion was very gay, and was crunching bonbons all the time.

I, as you may be sure, was gallant and attentive, and I followed her example with the bonbons.

My former aunt, Christina de Porterò, is at the happy age of between twenty-eight and thirty. Or, possibly, she is as old as thirty-two. Her figure is slender and supple, with those bold expansions of the hips which, in dancing the fandango, make short work of the skirt. Add to these fascinating details the accurate information with which I have already supplied you on the subject of her exuberant bust, and you can picture her very well for yourself.

She has a fine erect head, clear and singularly expressive features, a warm complexion, a Grecian nose, with quivering nostrils, and a mouth adorned with pearly teeth, with a soft, black, downy growth on her upper lip. She is an Andalusian, overflowing with life and spirits, whose exuberance, however, is tempered by her graceful and truly refined demeanour. One can guess what a fire of passion smoulders within her.

My uncle was in perfection that evening. From time to time he discarded his philosophic calm in order to take a look at us and reply in Spanish to his fair friend’s questions. He addressed her as “querida,” in that indulgent tone which is peculiar to him, like a pasha who is signifying his approbation.

During the course of our conversation I discovered that things had gone on like this between them since the day after that famous scene at Villebon, whose lively incidents had doubtless conduced to this friendly reconciliation. How had my uncle managed to get round the ferocious native of Toulon? That I could never discover. However this may have been, after the play was over, we went off, all three of us, to the Cafe Anglais.

We had a capital supper, during which Madame Jean Bonaffe, feeling more at her ease under these intimate circumstances, gave free play to her fascinations. I could soon perceive that in her pleasure at forgetting her regrettable escapades of the past, her grief over her supposed widowhood, and also the short-lived and illegal marriage which she had contracted by mistake, she expected that my uncle would settle her at Paris. She appeared to speak of this happy prospect as of something upon which her mind was set, and it gave rise to a number of beautiful castles in the air.

Barbassou-Pasha, gallant and attentive as ever, listened to all these proposed arrangements for her felicity, in that good-natured, patronizing manner which he always maintains with women, and only departs from in the case of my aunt Eudoxia, who keeps him in check. Nodding his approval of everything she said, he went on eating and drinking, like a practical man who will not neglect the claims of a good supper, and he allowed the fair Andalusian to lavish all her attentions upon him.

About two o’clock in the morning, we took a brougham, drove back my aunt to the Rue de l’Arcade, where she occupies a splendidly furnished suite of rooms, and then returned home.

“What do you think of all that, my dear Louis? Hum!”

Our little circle has been augmented by a very pleasant and genial addition, Mr. Edward Wolsey, a nephew of the commodore’s, who may very likely be engaged to Maud.

As I have become quite intimate with Commodore Montague’s party, I generally join their group, without the smallest fear of raising a suspicion regarding these encounters. The attention which I pay to Kondje-Gul and to Suzannah have caused no little envy, for, as you know, Kondje-Gul pretends she does not dance. This peculiarity, together with her original fascinations with which a certain childish simplicity is mingled, give rise to the most extraordinary conjectures. What is the cause of all this reserve? men ask. Is it modesty, bashfulness, or pride? They know that she can dance splendidly, for she has been seen dancing occasionally at private parties with Maud and Suzannah. They think it must be due to some jealous fiance, her betrothal to whom is kept secret, and to whom she is devoted.

Lent having interrupted the course of public entertainments, our private parties which usually took place at Teral House, became the gainers by it. Maud and Suzannah felt more free and easy there, and Kondje-Gul experienced quite a childish delight in holding what she called her “receptions.” Our small circle was soon augmented by a dozen select friends, picked carefully from the ranks of their young ball-room acquaintances. There were one or two mothers among them whose presence did not interfere with the harmony of these charming gatherings, and the tone of elegant distinction which prevailed in no respect interfered with their exuberant gaiety.

This break in the giddy circle of fashionable dissipation, afforded quite a new happiness to Kondje-Gul and me. In the course of her initiation into the refinements of our life, her exotic charms had acquired some new and indescribable embellishments. We spent many a long evening alone together in that delightful privacy which affords the sweetest opportunities for communion between loving hearts, and we grew to feel like a modern Darby and Joan. I was quite proud of my handiwork, and contemplated with joy this pure and ideal being whose nature I had inspired, whose soul and whose heart I had moulded. The cultivation of this young and virgin mind, as I may be permitted to call it, so possessed by its Oriental beliefs, had produced a charming contrast of enthusiasm and calm reason which imparted a most original effect to her frank utterances of new ideas. I was often quite surprised to find in her mingled with her Asiatic superstitions, and transformed as it were by contact with a simpler faith, the substance of my own private sentiments and of my wildest aspirations. One might really think that she had borrowed her thoughts, nay, her very life, as it were, from me, and that her tender emotions had their source in my own heart.

Our happiness seemed so assured, and we had it so completely under our own control, that it would have appeared absurd for us to imagine it to be at the mercy of Fate. Still, in the midst of this tranquillity there sometimes arose in my mind an anxious thought. Light clouds floated across my clear azure sky, and often, as I sat by her side, I began to think, in spite of myself, about the future about this marriage of which you yourself have reminded me, and from the obligations to which nothing could save me. However great the sacrifice might be, I could not even think of failing to carry out my uncle’s wishes in this matter. My heart bound me to this adoptive father who had placed unlimited faith in my loyalty: my whole life was pledged to this chivalrous benefactor who had left all his fortune in my hands, nor could I permit the least suspicion of ingratitude on my part to pass over his mind.

But melancholy as was the recollection of this duty to which I had resigned myself, I must confess that, after all, this impression was but a fugitive one. I no longer attempted to struggle against the temptation to a compromise, by means of which I had determined to reconcile my passion for Kondje-Gul with my marital duties to Anna Campbell. The retiring nature of the latter would surely permit our union to be treated as one of those arrangements known as mariages de convenance, and my charming romantic connection with Kondje-Gul would always remain a secret. Moreover, my uncle, should he ever discover this after-match of my oriental life, was certainly not the man to be seriously scandalised at it, directly he assured himself that “the respectabilities” had not been violated.

By-the-bye, I should tell you that was a false alarm I sounded about my uncle! I calumniated him when I believed him to have committed anything so shocking as a double adultery.

We went again yesterday to the forest of Meudon, which we had almost given up visiting of late, my uncle having been engaged for the last fortnight upon “some important morning business,” as he says. Well, we arrived at Villebon’s restaurant, our usual destination. When we entered that celebrated room empty this time which had been the scene of the drama which you remember, the latter came back very naturally to our memory, and would have done so even without the superfluous aid of the grins with which our waiter greeted us. Equally naturally, and as becomes a dutiful nephew, who does not wish to appear indifferent to family matters, I, seeing my uncle cast a glance towards the window near which the incident that produced such momentous consequences occurred, took the opportunity of asking after my pseudo-aunt Christina, about whom I had not had any previous chance of questioning him.

“Christina!” exclaimed Barbassou-Pasha, “why, she’s gone back!”

“Dear me! I thought she wanted to settle in Paris?”

His eye lightened up with a sly look.

“Oh, yes! She would have liked to do so very well,” he replied. “In fact, we made the round of the upholsterers’ shops, and she fancied, up to the last moment, that it was all settled. But I had made up my mind, and I sent her back to Jean Bonaffe.”

“The deuce you did!” I said, quite astonished at the news.

Then my uncle just closed one of his eyes, and looked at me out of the other, as he added

“You see, I was not sorry to return that rascal the little trick he played me before!”

And, with that, Barbassou-Pasha began to whistle a hunting song, with all the calm complacency of an honest soul on satisfactory terms with his neighbour. I accompanied him whistling the bass, and we got on very well together that time.

I believe that after this explanation, you will at once renew the esteem which you used to accord to my uncle, and will join me in a sincere expression of regret for having suspected him for one moment in this matter: in which, in reality, he had merely played the part of an avenging deity, punishing sinners with remorse by recalling to them the blisses of their lost Paradise. And I am ready to testify that he has spared no expense; for during the last three weeks he has had from me more than twenty thousand francs in pocket-money. I warrant you he has given his fair friend a jolly time of it, purposely holding the golden cup to her faithless lips, and letting them taste of all the pleasures

The severe lesson of an abrupt return to her husband, Jean Bonaffe, after the awakening of such delightful anticipations, will certainly impress the guilty one, and engrave in her heart a keen remorse for her past misconduct.