nquilly preparing his palette while awaiting his model, when he saw
Amedee Violette enter his studio. At the first glance he saw that the
poet knew all.

"Maurice," said Amedee, in a freezing tone, "I received a visit from
Mademoiselle Louise Gerard last evening. She told me everything--all, do
you understand me perfectly? I have come to learn whether I am mistaken
regarding you--whether Maurice Roger is an honest man."

A flame darted from the young artist's eyes. Amedee, with his livid
complexion and haggard from a sleepless night and tears, was pitiful to
see. And then it was Amedee, little Amedee whom Maurice sincerely loved,
for whom he had kept, ever since their college days, a sentiment, all the
more precious that it flattered his vanity, the indulgent affection and
protection of a superior.

"Oh! Grand, melodramatic words already!" said he, placing his palette
upon the table. "Amedee, my dear boy, I do not recognize you, and if you
have any explanation that you wish to ask of your old friend, it is not
thus that you should do it. You have received, you tell me, Mademoiselle
Gerard's confidence. I know you are devoted to those ladies. I understand
your emotion and I think your intervention legitimate; but you see I
speak calmly and in a friendly way. Calm yourself in your turn and do not
forget that, in spite of your zeal for those ladies, I am the best and
dearest companion of your youth. I am, I know, in one of the gravest
situations of my life. Let us talk of it. Advise me; you have the right
to do so; but not in that tone of voice--that angry, threatening tone
which I pardon, but which hurts and makes me doubt, were it possible,
your love for me."

"Ah! you know very well that I love you," replied the unhappy Amedee,
"but why do you need my advice? You are frank enough to deny nothing. You
admit that it is true, that you have seduced a young girl. Does not your
conscience tell you what to do?"

"To marry her? That is my intention. But, Amedee, do you think of my
mother? This marriage will distress her, destroy her fond hopes and
ambitions. I hope to be able to gain her consent; only I must have time
to turn myself. Later--very soon. I do not say--if the child lives."

This word, torn from Maurice by the cynicism which is in the heart of all
egotists, made Amedee angry.

"Your mother!" exclaimed he. "Your mother is the widow of a French
officer who died facing the enemy. She will understand it, I am sur