he is waiting for you."

This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, as we
heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We foresaw trouble.
Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her thought, and, taking her
hand, I said, "Fear nothing."

"Come back as soon as possible," whispered Marguerite, embracing me; "I
will wait for you at the window."

I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two hours later
I was at the Rue de Provence.

Chapter 20

My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing,
and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I
came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to
him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him,
and said:

"When did you come, father?"

"Last night."

"Did you come straight here, as usual?"

"Yes."

"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you."

I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened would
begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just
written, and gave it to Joseph to post.

When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the
mantel-piece, said to me:

"My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss."

"I am listening, father."

"You promise me to be frank?"

"Am I not accustomed to be so?"

"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite
Gautier?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what this woman was?"

"A kept woman."

"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister
and me this year?"

"Yes, father, I admit it."

"You are very much in love with this woman?"

"You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for
which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day."

My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he
seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me:

"You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?"

"I fear so, father, but I have not realized it."

"But you must realize," continued my father, in a dryer tone, "that I,
at all events, should not permit it."

"I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the
respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could
live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to the
fears I have had."

Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was p