ct 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
worthy girl noticed his red eyes and disturbed countenance.

"What is the matter with you, Amedee?" she inquired, anxiously.

"Louise," he replied, "do you not think that my father has changed very
much in the last few months?"

She stopped and looked at him with eyes shining with compassion.

"Very much changed, my poor Amedee. You would not believe me if I told
you that I had not remarked it. But whatever may be the cause--how shall
I say it?--that has affected your father's health, you should think of
only one thing, my friend; that is, that he has been tender and devoted
to you; that he became a widower very young and he did not remarry; that
he has endured, in order to devote himself to his only child, long years
of solitude and unhappy memories. You must think of that, Amedee, and
that only."

"I never shall forget it, Louise, never fear; my heart is full of
gratitude. This morning,