dee, joyfully. "Maurice Roger entertains us at a restaurant."

The young man's gayety left him suddenly when he looked at his father,
who had seated himself on the side of the bed. He had become almost
frightful to look at; old before his time, livid of complexion, his eyes
bloodshot, the rebellious lock of hair straggling over his right temple.
Nothing was more heartbreaking than his senile smile when he placed his
bony trembling hands upon his thighs. Amedee, who knew, alas, why his
father had reached such a pass, felt his heart moved with pity and shame.

"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
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 expe