“So much the better,” replied M. Martin; “or, perhaps, so much the worse. I would rather see you an enthusiastic admirer of Robinson, than of Paul and Virginia, or Faublas. But perhaps I am wrong; for, after all, Paul and Virginia are all tenderness, Faublas all love, and Robinson is egotism personified. However, nothing proves that egotism, which is a fault, is not alone worth as much as tenderness and love, which are considered good qualities. “Now, my son, listen to me. You owe me your existence, for which, if I do not merit your thanks, I should not incur your displeasure. I but fulfilled a natural law. I have provided for your wants: the laws of society made it my duty. I have just paid a sum of money which exempts you from military service. You will, however, be at liberty to become a soldier at any time you may think proper. To-day I have received from my notary your mother’s fortune. Here it is: it is yours. In this belt there are forty-eight pieces of paper of the Bank of France, and one hundred pieces of gold. Each one of these pieces of paper is worth fifty pieces of gold: each piece of gold is worth twenty of those white pieces which I give you on Sunday, when you go to play with the vagabond boys of the village on the church square. In short, you possess fifty thousand francs,--that is, more twenty-sous pieces than we gather apples in ten years. Compared with some, you are rich; with others, you are poor. Do not trouble yourself either about those who are above or about those who are below you. The interest of this money will enable you to live until, after having become acquainted with the world, you decide to choose a vocation. If, however, you do not see fit to take the trouble of investing it, you have only to limit your expenses to ten francs per day, when your patrimony will last five thousand days,--that is, about fourteen years. In all probability, at the expiration of this time I shall be dead, and you will naturally be the possessor of our domain, the Capelette, the revenues of which are three thousand francs a year, in bad times as well as in good. “You are about to set out for Paris, the city _par excellence_ of civilization. Never will you have so good a theatre for studying the world. Profit by it. Go, Eusebe, and do not take the goods of others: you would have no excuse, since you have enough of your own. Never disguise the truth. The play is not worth the candle. Never strike the weak, and be equally careful not to defend them: you would make yourself two enemies. Try to have neither enemies nor friends: there is little to choose between them. And now, good-bye, my boy: here is the coach.” The young man threw his arms around his father’s neck and embraced him affectionately. M. Martin was moved by this unexpected outburst of feeling. In a trembling voice, he said,-- “Farewell, my son! farewell!”