My aunt Gretchen van Cloth is in Paris!

Well, why do you assume your facetious tone on reading that? I know you and can guess your thoughts.

After all, Barbassou is a pasha, is it still necessary to remind you of that?

Well, the other day my uncle informed me that he would take me home to dine with him. I repaired to the boulevard at the appointed hour and we started in his brougham for Passy. On the way he told me what it was necessary I should know. We reached a rather nice looking house in the Rue Raynouard, from which you can see the boats floating down the Seine. There is a railing and a little garden in front. On hearing our footsteps, a young lady whom I at once recognised, from the recollections of my childhood, hurried to the door.

“Kiss your aunt,” my uncle said to me: and I did as I was told.

We then entered a modest little drawing-room, the commonplace aspect of which, reminding one of furnished apartments, was improved by its general neatness and by a few bunches of flowers displayed in sundry odd vases. Three youngsters, the smallest of whom was between three and four years old, were eating bread and butter there. My uncle saluted each of them with a hurried kiss, and then they ran off to their nurse.

My aunt Gretchen is just reaching her thirty-fourth birthday. She confesses to her age. If she did not come from Amsterdam she ought to have been born there. She has blossomed like a flower among the tulips, and she looks like a Rubens, in that painter’s more sober style, as in the portrait of the Friesland woman, with the prim pink and white flesh of the healthful natures of the North. You realise that good blood flows quietly and temperately beneath the pleasantly plump charms of this worthy Dutchwoman, who claims only her due, but is desirous of getting it. And she does get it. She has luxuriant light chestnut hair, and a very attractive face with the smiling, placid, and even somewhat simple expression of a good housewife, who is as expert in bringing up her children as in making pastry and pineapple jam. Being of a gay and amiable disposition, she greeted her husband with the ordinary, hearty affection of a woman who has never been a widow. After bringing him his foxskin cap she established him in a comfortable arm-chair, and then mixed his absinthe for him. I guessed that the captain was returning to old habits, with the dignified composure which he displays in everything.

They began to talk in Dutch, and as I looked at them without understanding it, my uncle said to me:

“Your aunt tells me that her kitchen range is too small to make any good souffles, and it worries her on your account.”

“Oh! my aunt is too kind to disturb herself about such a trifling matter,” I replied; “the pleasure I feel in seeing her again amply compensates me for this slight mishap.”

“Well, instead of the souffles you shall have some wafelen and some poffertjes!” quickly rejoined my aunt with her kindly smile.

I remarked that she spoke French much better than formerly. However, probably on account of her voyages with the captain, who recruited his crews at Toulon, her Dutch accent has now become a Provencal one.

The dinner was delightful, substantial and plentiful, like the charms of my aunt, who was victorious along the whole line, and notably with the spicy sauce of a gebakken schol, which was excellently baked.

The conversation was simple and of a free and easy character, my uncle talking with all the freedom of a man who has a quiet conscience. He was as much at his ease in his Dutch household as any good citizen could be, and I perceived that my aunt knew absolutely nothing about him, unless it were the important position that he occupied in the spice trade. She gave him some news about the great doings of the Van Hutten firm of Rotterdam and Antwerp, in which he seemed to take a particular interest. It seems, too, that Peter van Schloss, junior, is married to a young lady of Dordrecht, who presented him with twins after six months of matrimony, a circumstance which my uncle found very natural. Old Joshua Schlittermans, having been utterly ruined by the failure of Gannton Brothers of New York, has now taken to drink.

When the coffee was served (Dirkie had brought it from Amsterdam, purchasing it on the Damplaatz, at the corner of Kalver Straat), my aunt filled a long porcelain pipe which my uncle took from her hands and lighted, puffing out clouds of smoke, with the serene gravity of some worthy burgomaster at home. We drank some schiedam and two sorts of dry curacoa. While my aunt sat knitting at the table she questioned me as to my occupations, asking me if I were working in my uncle’s establishment; and upon my replying affirmatively to her, she gave me some very good advice, telling me to be very industrious so that I might take my uncle’s place later on.

At half-past ten we rose from table and went into the drawing-room. Dirkie got everything ready for a game of dominoes, and they began to play in the Dutch fashion. My uncle kept the markers, and noted the points made: he himself speedily scored between three and four hundred, and then, feeling satisfied with his success, he said:

“Well, give us a little music!”

My aunt did not require any pressing, but went to the piano in a very good-humoured manner. She opened the top so that the instrument might give out a louder sound, then passed behind and arranged everything; and suddenly I heard the splendid introduction of Haydn’s seventh symphony in F major bursting forth, while my aunt turned the handle with rare skill and gracefulness. (I recognised the superb instrument mentioned in the fourth legacy of the famous will.)

I must admit that if my aunt played the minuet rather quickly, she executed the andante in a very delicate style, and the scherzo and the finale were both dashed off in a spirited way. At the last chord, I applauded with sincere enthusiasm.

“She plays very well, doesn’t she?” my uncle quietly asked me, in a modest tone. “You, who are a connoisseur ”

“Oh! she plays perfectly,” I rejoined, without stinting my praise.

“And besides she puts expression into it,” he resumed. “One can see that she feels what she plays.”

My aunt kissed him for this compliment, which he paid her with the gravest assurance.

“Ah! you are still a flatterer!” she said to him.

As may readily be guessed, some of Strauss’s waltzes and two or three polkas followed the classical symphonies, together with the overtures of “Don Giovanni” and “Fra Diavolo.” It was really a perfect concert till midnight. But by that time my aunt’s plump arm being somewhat tired it was necessary to bring the entertainment to a close.

Now, my dear fellow, I am not one of those who give way to the stupid prejudices of our foolish traditions; still less am I one of those who seek to evade frivolous objections, or fight shy of plain and open discussion. I have myself officially abandoned polygamy, that is true but you are meditating another attack upon my uncle I see it and I feel it and from the depths of your troglodytic intellect you intend to drag out some commonplace hackneyed argument accompanied by frivolous sarcasms, and directed, not at the point in question, but all round it. As you are even incapable of understanding your own so-called virtue in its true and primitive sense, you will no doubt repeat your usual stupid remarks, denouncing my uncle’s conduct as scandalous.

Let us go straight to the moral point, without haggling over words. My uncle, who has the advantage of being a Turk, distributes himself between his two wives, like a worthy husband faithful to his duty. Do you presume to blame him? In that case what have you to say to our friends A. B. C. D. E. F. (I spare you the rest of the alphabet, and it is understood that the reader and present company are excepted), our friends, I say, who deceive their wives for the sake of hussies who have several protectors, as they are well aware? It is not a question here of fighting on behalf of the holy shrine of monogamy. With how many faithful, irreproachable husbands are you acquainted? Those hussies are mistresses, you will say to me! I know it: that is to say, they are females who belong to everybody. The question is settled: my uncle is a virtuous man by the side of our friends. As he is incapable of such vulgar and promiscuous intrigues he has a supplementary household, that is all! Like the prudent traveller who is acquainted with the length of the journey he judiciously prepares relays.

Compare that family gathering at my aunt Van Cloth’s with those unhealthy stolen pleasures of debauched husbands who feel ashamed and tremble with the fear of being surprised. My uncle is a patriarch and takes no part in the licentiousness of our times. So much for this subject.

I have just received a most unforeseen blow, my dear Louis, and even while I write have scarcely recovered from the alarm of a horrible machination from which we were only saved by a miracle.

I told you about my poor Kondje-Gul’s passing grief on account of her mother’s foolish ideas. Reassured as to the future by my vows and promises, she was too amenable to my influence to refuse to submit to a trial which I was forced by duty to prepare her for. Proud at the thought that she was sacrificing her jealousy for me, sacrificing herself for my happiness, her tears having been dried up by my kisses, I found her the day after this cruel blow to her heart as expansive and confiding as if no cloud had darkened our sky.

But a very few days after I was quite surprised to observe a sort of melancholy resignation about her. I attributed this trouble to some of the childish worries which her mother’s temper occasionally gave her. However, after several days had passed like this, I came to the conclusion that the cause of her sadness must be something more than a transitory one, and that she was harassed by some new grief which even my presence was not sufficient to dissipate. By her replies to me, which seemed to be pervaded by more than usual tenderness, I judged that in her fear of alarming me, no doubt, she wished to conceal from me the real cause of her anxiety.

One evening at one of our little parties at the Montagues, which had begun as a concert, but was converted by us, in our gay and sociable mood, into a dance, Maud had trotted me off to make up a quadrille. Kondje-Gul, who, as you know, never dances, had withdrawn into the boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, where she was looking through the albums. I suspected nothing, and was engaged in a frivolous conversation with Maud, when from where I stood, through the glass partition which separated the two rooms, I noticed Kiusko come and sit down by her side. It was natural enough that, seeing her alone, he considered himself bound not to leave her so, for that might have looked like a want of politeness on his part. It seemed to me, moreover, from their faces, that their conversation was upon indifferent topics, and was being conducted in that tone of ordinary friendliness which was usual between them.

He was turning over the pages of an album as he talked to her. I had no reason to pay much attention to this tete-a-tete, and was not even intending to follow it, but once, near the end of the quadrille, my eyes being again turned by chance in Kondje-Gul’s direction, I saw her rise up all of a sudden, as if something that Daniel had said had excited her suddenly. I thought I saw her blush, raising her head proudly and answering him in an offended tone.

The dance being now over, I left Maud, and, agitated by an anxious kind of feeling, walked up to the boudoir. They were standing up, and Kiusko’s back being turned to the door, he did not see me enter. Kondje-Gul saw me and said:

“Andre, come and give me your arm!”

At this unusually bold request, Daniel could not repress a gesture of astonishment, and cast a bewildered glance at me. I advanced, and she seized my arm with a convulsive movement, and addressed herself to my rival:

“This is the second time, sir, that you have declared your love to me. Let me tell you why I decline it: I am the slave of Monsieur Andre de Peyrade, and I love him!”

If a thunderbolt had fallen at Daniel’s feet, it could not have startled him more than this. He turned so pale that I thought he was going to faint. He gazed at both of us with a desperate and ferocious look, as if some terrible thought was revolving in his mind. His features were contracted into such a savage expression that I instinctively placed myself between him and Kondje-Gul. But, all at once, frightened no doubt at his own passion, he gave one glance of despair and rage, and fled from the room. Kondje-Gul was all of a tremble.

“What has happened, then?” I asked her.

“I will tell you all about it,” she answered, in a voice still quivering with emotion. “I am going home with my mother. Come after us as soon as we are off.”