"Thank you, my dear Paul. I have only one request to make, and that is, that you will give me your attention. First, I must recall the past. In tropical countries, girls marry young. You were born when Mme. Frager was only fifteen years old. For eighteen years, she devoted her whole life to you. You were eighteen years old when I first saw your mother. I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although thirty-three years old, she barely appeared twenty-five. I was so fortunate as to please her. The noble woman had brought you to manhood. Her task might be considered as accomplished. I begged for her hand, and she made me the happiest of mortals by granting my request. Ever since that time, you have been opposed to me. The time has now come to put an end to this misunderstanding. Before my marriage, I confess, my life was not what it should have been. As you grow older, dear Paul, you will learn that one of the first virtues in this world is charity. I confessed my faults to your mother. She, alone, had the right to condemn me. She forgave me, and I had the inestimable happiness of giving my name to the one I love and reverence more than all else on earth. I regret to awaken these painful memories, but I am coming to our unfortunate disagreement; you have never forgiven me for marrying your mother. I was never angry at you. Children are always more or less selfish in their affections. You never reflected that, after having consecrated the best years of her life to you, your mother had the right to think at last of her own happiness. In short, you were offended at her marriage with me, and separated yourself entirely from us, leaving your mother, who loved you so tenderly, turning your back on me, who was anxious to give you the affection of an older brother. But, instead of being angry, we only respected you the more. Such pride shows that you are warm-hearted and impulsive. You will understand that, under ordinary circumstances, I should never have intruded upon you; but the cause of my journey here was the anxiety aroused by your last few letters to your mother." Paul was listening with the greatest attention. Claude Sirvin was speaking with all his heart in his words, and Paul could not help being touched by them. The artist talked, as he painted, with his whole soul. His voice was sometimes tender and sweet, then it rose to firmness, according to the thought he was expressing. This eloquence was what made him so dangerously fascinating to women. He continued: "Now we come to the cause of my visit. I have spoken of our anxiety. For some time past, your letters have been feverish, glowing, nervous, and it is easy to guess that you are in love at last." Paul started visibly, blushed, and then grew pale, trembling violently. Claude gently took his hand: