ioned, and certainly not exposed to such humiliation. You went to
see Monsieur Charnot without reflecting whether you were not bringing
trouble into his household; without reflecting, further, whether
such conduct as yours, which may perhaps be usual among your business
acquaintances, was likely to succeed with me. Perhaps you thought it
would. You have merely completed an experiment, begun long ago, which
proves that we do not understand life in the same way, and that it
will be better for both of us if I continue to live in Paris, and you
continue to live at Bourges."

"Ha! that's how you take it, young man, is it? You refuse to come? you
try to bully me?"

"Yes."

"Consider carefully before you let me leave here alone. You know the
amount of your fortune--fourteen hundred francs a year, which means
poverty in Paris."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then, attend to what I am about to say. For years past I have
been saving my practice for you--that is, an honorable and lucrative
position all ready for you to step into. But I am tired at length of
your fads and your fancies. If you do not take up your quarters at
Bourges within a fortnight from now, the Mouillard practice will change
its name within three weeks!" My uncle sniffed with emotion as he looked
at me, expecting to see me totter beneath his threats. I made no
answer for a moment; but a thought which had been harassing me from the
beginning of our interview compelled me to say:

"I have only one thing to ask you, Monsieur Mouillard."

"Further respite, I suppose? Time to reflect and fool me again? No, a
hundred times no! I've had enough of you; a fortnight, not a day more!"

"No, sir; I do not ask for respite."

"So much the better, for I should refuse it. What do you want?"

"Monsieur Mouillard, I trust that Jeanne was not present at the
interview, that she heard none of it, that she was not forced to
blush--"

My uncle sprang to his feet, seized his gloves, which lay spread out
on the table, bundled them up, flung them passionately into his hat,
clapped the whole on his head, and made for the door with angry strides.

I followed him; he never looked back, never made answer to my "Good-by,
uncle." But, at the sixth step, just before turning the corner, he
raised his stick, gave the banisters a blow fit to break them, and went
on his way downstairs exclaiming:

"Damnation!"

May 20th.

And so we have parted with an oath, my un