The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the most cruel deceptions. “I am well off, sir,” he replied; “but I have not always been so. Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series of absurd and useless privations. I had a father who wasted my youth, ruined my life, and made me the most pitiable of human creatures.” There are men who can never divest themselves of their professional habits. M. Daburon was at all times and seasons more or less an investigating magistrate. “How, M. Tabaret,” he inquired, “your father the author of all your misfortunes?” “Alas, yes, sir! I have forgiven him at last; but I used to curse him heartily. In the first transports of my resentment, I heaped upon his memory all the insults that can be inspired by the most violent hatred, when I learnt,--But I will confide my history to you, M. Daburon. When I was five and twenty years of age. I was earning two thousand francs a year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father entered my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without food or shelter. He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself. I loved my father. Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner said than done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old--” “What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?” “Do I repent of it! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the bread I gave him.” M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not escape the old fellow’s notice.