Paul had listened up to this time with patience, but at this sarcasm
he endeavored to protest; but it was in vain, for Mascarin went on
pitilessly,--

"One day you abandoned the study of the law, and told your mother
that until you had made your name as a musical composer you would give
lessons on the piano; but you could obtain no pupils, and--well, just
look in the glass yourself, and say if you think that your age and
appearance would justify parents in intrusting their daughters to your
tuition?"

Mascarin stopped for a moment and consulted his notes afresh.

"Your departure from Poitiers," he went on, "was your last act of folly.
The very day after your poor mother's death you collected together all
her scanty savings, and took the train to Paris."

"Then, sir, I had hoped----"

"What, to arrive at fortune by the road of talent? Foolish boy! Every
year a thousand poor wretches have been thus intoxicated by their
provincial celebrity, and have started for Paris, buoyed up by similar
hopes. Do you know the end of them? At the end of ten years--I give them
no longer--nine out of ten die of starvation and disappointment, and the
other joins the criminal army."

Paul had often repeated this to himself, and could, therefore, make no
reply.