endeavored to bring the Order into disrepute by bestowing its cross
right and left, there were not fifty-three thousand persons decorated.

Agathe trembled through her whole being. If it were impossible to love
this son any longer, she could still suffer for him. Quivering with

this last expression of motherhood, she wept as she saw the brilliant
staff officer of the Emperor turn to enter tobacconist's and pause on

the threshold; he had felt in his pocket and found nothing. Agathe
left the bridge, crossed the quai rapidly, took out her purse, thrust

it into Philippe's hand, and fled away as if she had committed a
crime. After that, she ate nothing for two days; before her was the

horrible vision of her son dying of hunger in the streets of Paris.
"When he has spent all the money in my purse, who will give him any?"

she thought. "Giroudeau did not deceive us; Philippe is just out of
that hospital."

She no longer saw the assassin of her poor aunt, the scourge of the
family, the domestic thief, the gambler, the drunkard, the low liver

of a bad life; she saw only the man recovering from illness, yet
doomed to die of starvation, the smoker deprived of his tobacco. At

forty-seven years of age she grew to look like a woman of seventy. Her
eyes were dimmed with tears and prayers. Yet it was not the last grief

this son was to bring upon her; her worst apprehensions were destined
to be realized. A conspiracy of officers was discovered at the heart

of the army, and articles from the "Moniteur" giving details of the
arrests were hawked about the streets.

In the depths of her cage in the lottery-office of the rue Vivienne,
Agathe heard the name of Philippe Bridau. She fainted, and the

manager, understanding her trouble and the necessity of taking certain
steps, gave her leave of absence for two weeks.

"Ah! my friend," she said to Joseph, as she went to bed that night,
"it is our severity which drove him to it."

"I'll go and see Desroches," answered Joseph.
While the artist was confiding his brother's affairs to the younger

Desroches,--who by this time had the reputation of being one of the
keenest and most astute lawyers in Paris, and who, moreover, did

sundry services for personages of distinction" target="_blank" title="n.差别；特征；卓越">distinction, among others for des
Lupeaulx, then secretary of a ministry,--Giroudeau called upon the

widow. This time, Agathe believed him.
"Madame," he said, "if you can produce twelve thousand francs your son

will be set at liberty for want of proof. It is necessary to buy the
silence of two witnesses."

"I will get the money," said the poor mother, without knowing how or
where.

Inspired by this danger, she wrote to her godmother, old Madame
Hochon, begging her to ask Jean-Jacques Rouget to send her the twelve

thousand francs and save his nephew Philippe. If Rouget refused, she
entreated Madame Hochon to lend them to her, promising to return them

in two years. By return of courier, she received the following
letter:--

My dear girl: Though your brother has an income of not less than
forty thousand francs a year, without counting the sums he has

laid by for the last seventeen years, and which Monsieur Hochon
estimates at more than six hundred thousand francs, he will not

give one penny to nephews whom he has never seen. As for me, you
know I cannot dispose of a farthing while my husband lives. Hochon

is the greatest miser in Issoudun. I do not know what he does with
his money; he does not give twenty francs a year to his

grandchildren. As for borrowing the money, I should have to get
his signature, and he would refuse it. I have not even attempted

to speak to your brother, who lives with a concubine, to whom he
is a slave. It is pitiable to see how the poor man is treated in

his own home, when he might have a sister and nephews to take care
of him.

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.

"And pray, mere Bridau," he cried, in his little cracked voice, "how
long are you going to be duped by your cursed brigand of a son? Don't

give him a farthing. Make yourself easy, I'll answer for Philippe. I
should like to see him brought before the Court of Peers; it might

save his future. You are afraid he will be condemned; but I say, may
it please God his lawyer lets him be convicted. Go to Issoudun, secure

the property for your children. If you don't succeed, if your brother
has made a will in favor of that woman, and you can't make him revoke

it,--well then, at least get all the evidence you can of undue
influence, and I'll institute proceedings for you. But you are too

honest a woman to know how to get at the bottom facts of such a
matter. I'll go myself to Issoudun in the holidays,--if I can."

That "go myself" made Joseph tremble in his skin. Desroches winked at
him to let his mother go downstairs first, and then the lawyer

detained the young man for a single moment.
"Your brother is a great scoundrel; he is the cause of the discovery

of this conspiracy,--intentionally or not, I can't say, for the rascal
is so sly no one can find out the exact truth as to that. Fool or

traitor,--take your choice. He will be put under the surveillance of
the police, nothing more. You needn't be uneasy; no one knows this

secret but myself. Go to Issoudun with your mother. You have good
sense; try to save the property."

"Come, my poor mother, Desroches is right," said Joseph, rejoining