g gently at the door on the left. A young and
pretty maid--one of those brunettes who have a waist that one can clasp
in both hands, and a suspicion of a moustache--opened the door and
ushered the young man into a drawing-room furnished in a simple but
luxurious manner. Maurice was alone, standing with his back to the fire,
in the attitude of master of the house. He received his friend with warm
demonstrations of pleasure. Amedee's eyes were at once attracted by the
portrait of a handsome lieutenant of artillery, dressed in the regimental
coat, with long skirts, of 1845, and wearing a sword-belt fastened by two
lion's heads. This officer, in parade costume, was painted in the midst
of a desert, seated under a palm-tree.

"That is my father," said Maurice. "Do I not resemble him?"

The resemblance was really striking. The same warm, pleasant smile, and
even the same blond curls. Amedee was admiring it when a voice repeated
behind him, like an echo:

"Maurice resembles him, does he not?"

It was Madame Roger who had quietly entered. When Amedee saw this stately
lady in mourning, with a Roman profile, and clear, white complexion, who
threw such an earnest glance at her son, then at her husband's portrait,
Amedee comprehended that Maurice was his mother's idol, and, moved by the
sight of the widow, who would have been beautiful but for her gray hair
and eyelids, red from so much weeping, he stammered a few words of thanks
for the invitation to dinner.

"My son has told me," said she, "that you are the one among all his
comrades that he cares for most. I know what affection you have shown
him. I am the one who should thank you, Monsieur Amedee."

They seated themselves and talked; every few moments these words were
spoken by Madame Roger with an accent of pride and tenderness, "My son
. . . . my son Maurice." Amedee realized how pleasant his friend's life
must be with such a good mother, and he could not help comparing his own
sad childhood, recalling above all things the lugubrious evening repasts,
when, for several years now, he had buried his nose in his plate so as
not to see his father's drunken eyes always fastened upon him as if to
ask for his pardon.

Maurice let his mother praise him for a few moments, looking at her with
a pleasant smile which became a trifle saddened. Finally he interrupted
her:

"It is granted, mamma, that I am a perfect phoenix," and he gayly
embraced her.

At this moment the pretty m