it; forget it. I beg of you, my child, do not judge me severely. And
one of these days, if I die-ah! we must expect it--the burden of my
grief is too heavy for me to bear, it crushes me! Well, my child, if I
die, promise me to be indulgent to my memory, and when you think of your
father only say: 'He was very unhappy!'"

Amedee shed tears upon his father's shoulder, who softly stroked his
son's beautiful hair with his trembling hands.

"My father, my good father!" sobbed Amedee, "I love and respect you with
all my heart. I will dress myself quickly and we will go to the office
together; we will return the same way and dine like a pair of good
friends. I beg of you, do not ask me to leave you to-day!"

But M. Violette suddenly arose as if he had formed some resolution.

"No, Amedee," said he, firmly. "I have said what I had to say to you,
and you will remember it. That is sufficient. Go and amuse yourself
this evening with your friends. Sadness is dangerous at your age. As
for myself, I shall go to dine with Pere Bastide, who has just received
his pension, and has invited me more than twenty times to come and see
his little house at Grand Montrouge. It is understood; I wish it. Now
then, wipe your eyes and kiss me."

Having tenderly embraced his son, M. Violette left the room. Amedee
could hear him in the vestibule take down his hat and cane, open and
close the door, and go down the stairs with a heavy step. A quarter of
an hour after, as the young man was crossing the Luxembourg to go to the
office, he met Louise Gerard with her roll of music in her hand, going to
give some lessons in the city. He walked a few steps beside her, and the