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 Theâtre des Variétés 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
Bonaffé 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 Portero, 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.