“Yes, monsieur, I decline. Oh! I know very well that what I am doing is wrong! It is a horrible thing on my part to refuse what would certainly give my mother rest and happiness! It is outrageous, it is a wicked thing for me to do! But it is too much for me, monsieur! You won’t tell mother, I implore you, monsieur--will you? You won’t tell her that you offered me all this and I refused? It would make her unhappy and perhaps she wouldn’t forgive me!” And poor Georget knelt at Monsieur Malberg’s feet, repeating: “I beg you, monsieur, don’t say anything to my mother!” “Rise, Georget, rise; no, of course I won’t say anything to your mother. Indeed, you must have powerful reasons for acting thus! Don’t weep, my friend, I do not wish to cause you pain; once more I say, forget my offer and let us not mention the subject again.” “Forget it! Oh, no! I know very well that I shall not forget it, monsieur! It was so kind of you! As to my reasons--my reasons for declining, I haven’t got but one, but I don’t dare to tell you what it is.” “Keep your secret; I don’t ask any questions.” “But I don’t want you to think of me as a bad son, as a fellow who prefers the life of a vagabond in Paris to his mother’s happiness, monsieur. No; I would rather tell you everything. I am in love, monsieur; yes, madly in love with a young flower girl at the Château d’Eau, on the boulevard yonder. Violette is so pretty, and a respectable, virtuous girl, who doesn’t listen to anybody!” “But she listens to you, doesn’t she?” “No, monsieur, for I have never dared to tell her outright that I am in love with her; she may have seen it, but she doesn’t act as if she had. But, monsieur, I can see her every morning when I go out, and at night before I come home, for I always find an excuse to pass by her stand. But if I should go and live on your place in the country, then I should have to give up seeing Violette, in the morning or at night or ever! and you see, monsieur, I feel that it would be impossible for me to live without seeing her! It would be like not living at all; and then it seems to me that I shouldn’t be good for anything.” “Poor boy!” murmured Monsieur Malberg; “so young, and in love already! If he is happy, I shall be very much surprised.”