.

.

three, my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less.

Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity?
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.