"Are you suffering to-day?" asked the young man. "Would you prefer that
we should dine together as usual? I will send word to Maurice. Nothing
is easier."

"No, my child, no!" replied M. Violette, in a hollow tone. "Go and
amuse yourself with your friends. I know perfectly well that the life
you lead with me is too monotonous. Go and amuse yourself, it will
please me--only there is an idea that troubles me more than usual--and
I want to confide it to you."

"What is it then, dear papa?"

"Amedee, last March your mother had been dead fifteen years. You hardly
knew her. She was the sweetest and best of creatures, and all that I can
wish you is, that you may meet such a woman, make her your companion for
life, and be more fortunate than I, my poor Amedee, and keep her always.
During these frightful years since your mother's death I have suffered,
do you see? suffered horribly, and I have never, never been consoled.
If I have lived--if I have had the strength to live, in spite of all, it
was only for you and in remembrance of her. I think I have nearly
finished my task. You are a young man, intelligent and honest, and you
have now an employment which will give you your bread. However, I often
ask myself--oh, very often--whether I have fulfilled my duty toward you.
Ah! do not protest," added the unhappy man, whom Amedee had clasped in
his arms. "No, my poor child, I have not loved you sufficiently; grief
has filled too large a place in my heart; above all, during these last
few years I have not been with you enough. I have sought solitude. You
understand me, Amedee, I can not tell you more," he said, with a sob.
"There are some parts of my life that you must ignore, and if it grieves
you to know what I have become during that time, you must never think of