“Young people will be young people,” Andre ventured to observe; but the old man’s wrath would not be assuaged by a platitude like this.

“You can find no excuse for him, only the fellow is absolutely ashamed of his father.  He consorts with titled fools and is in the seventh heaven if a waiter addresses him as ‘Count,’ not seeing that it is not he that is treated with respect, but the gold pieces of his old father, the working man.”

Andre’s position was now a most painful one, and he would have given a good deal not to be the recipient of a confidence which was the result of anger.

“He is only twenty, and yet see what a wreck he is,” resumed Gandelu.  “His eyes are dim, and he is getting bald; he stoops, and spends his nights in drink and bad company.  I have, however, only myself to blame, for I have been far too lenient; and if he had asked me for my head, I believe that I should have given it to him.  He had only to ask and have.  After my wife’s death, I had only the boy.  Do you know what he has in this house?  Why, rooms fit for a prince, two servants and four horses.  I allow him monthly, fifteen hundred francs, and he goes about calling me a niggard, and has already squandered every bit of his poor mother’s fortune.”  He stopped, and turned pale, for at that moment the door opened, and young Gaston, or rather Peter, slouched into the room.

“It is the common fate of fathers to be disappointed in their offspring, and to see the sons who ought to have been their honor and glory the scourge to punish their worldly aspirations,” exclaimed the old man.

“Good! that is really a very telling speech,” murmured Gaston approvingly, “considering that you have not made a special study of elocution.”

Fortunately his father did not catch these words, and continued in a voice broken by emotion, “That, M. Andre, is my son, who for twenty years has been my sole care.  Well, believe it or not, as you like, he has been speculating on my death, as you might speculate on a race-horse at Vincennes.”

“No, no,” put in Gaston, but his father stopped him with a disdainful gesture.

“Have at least the courage to acknowledge your fault.  You thought me blind because I said nothing, but your past conduct has opened my eyes.”

“But, father!”

“Do not attempt to deny it.  This very morning my man of business, M. Catenac, wrote to me, and with that real courage which only true friends possess, told me all.  I must tell you, M. Andre,” resumed the contractor, “I was ill.  I had a severe attack of the gout, such as a man seldom recovers from, and my son was constant in his attendance at my sick couch.  This consoled me.  ‘He loves me after all,’ said I. But it was only my testamentary arrangements that he wanted to discover, and he went straight to a money-lender called Clergot and raised a hundred thousand francs assuring the blood-sucker that I had not many hours to live.”