Ah, how Amedee bounded upon his neck!

“My good, my dear Maurice!  Quickly dress yourself.  Let us go to those ladies and embrace and console that dear child.  Ah!  I knew very well that you would understand me and that your heart was in the right place.  How happy the poor women will be!  Now then, my old friend, is it not good to do one’s duty?”

Yes, Maurice found that it was good now; excited and carried away by his friend, he hurried toward the good action that was pointed out to him as he would to a pleasure-party, and while putting on his coat to go out, he said: 

“After all, my mother can only approve, and since she always does as I wish, she will end by adoring my little Maria.  It is all right; there is no way of resisting you, Violette.  You are a good and persuasive Violette.  Now, then, here I am, ready—­a handkerchief—­my hat.  Off we go!”

They went out and took a cab which carried them toward Montmartre.  The easy-going Maurice, reconciled to his future, sketched out his plan of life.  Once married, he would work seriously.  At first, immediately after the ceremony, he would leave with his wife to pass the winter in the South, where she could be confined.  He knew a pretty place in the Corniche, near Antibes, where he should not lose his time, as he could bring back marine and landscape sketches.  But it would not be until the next winter that he would entirely arrange his life.  The painter Laugeol was going to move; he would hire his apartment—­“a superb studio, my dear fellow, with windows looking out upon the Luxembourg.”  He could see himself there now, working hard, having a successful picture in the Salon, wearing a medal.  He chose even the hangings in the sleeping-rooms in advance.  Then, upon beautiful days, how convenient the garden would be for the child and the nurse.

Suddenly, in the midst of this chattering, he noticed Amedee’s sad face as he shrank into the back of the carriage.

“Forgive me, my dear friend,” said he, taking him affectionately by the hand.  “I forgot what you told me just now.  Ah! fate is ridiculous, when I think that my happiness makes you feel badly.”

The poet gave his friend a long, sad look.

“Be happy with Maria and make her happy, that is all I ask for you both.”

They had reached the foot of Montmartre, and the carriage went slowly up the steep streets.

“My friend,” said Amedee, “we shall arrive there soon.  You will go in alone to see these ladies, will you not?  Oh! do not be afraid.  I know Louise and the mother.  They will not utter one word of reproach.  Your upright act will be appreciated by them as it merits—­but you will excuse me from going with you, do you see?  It would be too painful for me.”

“Yes, I understand, my poor Amedee.  As it pleases you.  Now then, courage, you will be cured of it.  Everything is alleviated in time,” replied Maurice, who supposed everybody to have his fickle nature.  “I shall always remember the service that you have rendered me, for I blush now as I think of it.  Yes, I was going to do a villainous act.  Amedee, embrace me.”