While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to see a business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one of her friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She came on to the Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The man had promised to pay all her debts, to give her a receipt for the amount, and to hand over to her twenty thousand francs, in return for the whole of her furniture. You have seen by the amount taken at the sale that this honest man would have gained thirty thousand francs out of his client. We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for the future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to our love, we saw in the rosiest light. A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us that my servant was asking for me. “Let him come in,” I said. “Sir,” said he, “your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you to return at once to your rooms, where 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 XX 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.”