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.