“All right, my boy, we will talk about all those things hereafter; but go now with your mother and take possession of your quarters. Pongo will escort you.--Pongo! the small building at the left, near the entrance to the kitchen garden--that is where Madame Brunoy and her son are to live.” While Georget and his mother followed the mulatto, who went before them, dancing a sort of chika and singing: “Me going to see Carabi my friend! oh! he not naughty any more, he going to lick my nose!” the Comte de Brévanne entered one of the avenues lined with linden trees, and as he walked back and forth there, seemed buried in profound meditation. Within a few days, the mood of the man whom his neighbors called the Bear had changed considerably: Monsieur de Brévanne was still pensive, but his reverie was less gloomy, less forbidding than before; his brow had cleared, he avoided society less, and it even happened sometimes that he stopped to talk a moment with his neighbors. This abatement of his misanthropy dated from the day that he had seen his wife in Monsieur Glumeau’s wood. The count had been walking there for some time, when he spied Georget standing within a few feet of him, apparently afraid to interrupt his revery. “Ah! there you are, Georget. Have you seen your lodgings? Do you like them? Is your mother better?” “Yes, monsieur, my mother is overjoyed, and so am I. Monsieur is too kind to us. Now that we are settled, I have come to ask monsieur what work I shall do to-day.” “To-day, my friend, you must rest, walk about the gardens and the house, and become acquainted with the place; to-morrow we will talk about work. But first of all, Georget, tell me your trouble; for you are in trouble, I can see it in your eyes. Indeed, as you have already confided in me about your love-affair, I ought to know now how it happens that you have been able to make up your mind to leave your young flower girl, with whom you were so deeply in love. You could not endure the thought of passing a single day without seeing her, and now you are here, and you don’t want to hear Paris mentioned! Poor boy! that girl who you said was so virtuous and honest, must have listened to some other man than you--isn’t it true that that is the cause that has brought you here?” “Mon Dieu! yes, monsieur, you have guessed the truth; at all events, I prefer that you should know everything, I prefer to tell you all my sorrow, for it is so hard always to have to restrain one’s feelings! It stifles one! Oh! allow me to cry, monsieur; I don’t dare to before my mother, but it won’t offend you.” “Weep, my boy; at your age, tears come readily, and are a relief. You are not a man yet, you have not the strength to endure a woman’s treachery; and even grown men are very weak sometimes in such cases!”