“It’s very bad of me to do as I am doing, isn’t it, monsieur? On account of this love that turns my head, for this girl who perhaps doesn’t love me and will never love me, I refuse to assure my mother a peaceful life and livelihood. Ah! I feel that I am an ungrateful, wicked son! I hate myself, I would beat myself if it would do any good; but it wouldn’t cure me! This love has crept into my heart little by little; it’s more than three years now that I have seen Violette almost every day; I was very young at first, and then as I grew up I got used to loving her, and that sentiment grew up with me, and grew much faster than I did. So now there is no way to drive it from my heart; it can never leave it; and indeed if it could, I wouldn’t want it to. Could I ever guess that the day would come when it would cause me so much sorrow?” “Don’t despair, Georget; it may be that there is still some way of arranging matters. Suggest to your mother to go and live on my estate and take care of my house; don’t tell her that there was a place there for you too; in this way your mother will be able to live in the country where you say she enjoys herself so much, and you can go to see her whenever you please; it is not far from here to Nogent,--three leagues at most.” “Ah! how kind you are, monsieur! In that way, as you say, my mother will live comfortably, and the fresh country air will cure her entirely. It is true that it will be hard for me not to see her every day, not to live with her; but I shall be able to endure that privation, because I will say to myself: ‘It’s for her good, it’s for her happiness!’ but still it isn’t kind of me to think that I could get along without seeing mother and that I can’t make up my mind not to see Violette; is it, monsieur?” “It isn’t your fault, my boy; nature has decreed that a new love is always fatal to the old ones.” “But one’s love for one’s mother, monsieur! that ought not to grow any less in our hearts; but it is less unreasonable than the other. Ah! if you knew Violette, monsieur, you would understand that I cannot cease to love her. She is so pretty! She has her stand on the boulevard, near the Château d’Eau; would you like me to tell her to bring you a bouquet? She would ask nothing better, monsieur.” “No, it isn’t necessary; I have no need of bouquets, and I take your word for all that you say of this girl.” “Then, monsieur, with your permission, I will go right away and tell my mother what you are kind enough to offer her.” “Go, Georget, and come back and tell me her answer.” “Happy age,” said Monsieur Malberg to himself as he watched the young messenger walk away; “happy age, when one does not doubt constancy in love, when one believes in the sincerity of friendship! I, too, believed in those things, but I was most cruelly undeceived! He sacrifices everything to his love for a woman! Poor boy! he will be deceived like the others; but he begins that trade too early!”