The hopes that M. Violette had formed as to his son’s inheriting from M. Gaufre were very problematical; for the father, whom M. Gaufre had not been able to avoid receiving at his table occasionally, had been struck, even shocked, by the familiar and despotic tone of the old merchant’s servant, a superb Normandy woman of about twenty-five years, answering to the royal name of Berenice.  The impertinent ways of this robust woman betrayed her position in her master’s house, as much as the diamonds that glittered in her ears.  This creature would surely watch the will of her patron, a sexagenarian with an apoplectic neck, which became the color of dregs of wine after a glass of brandy.

M. Gaufre, although very practical and a churchwarden at St. Sulpice, had always had a taste for liaisons.  His wife, during her life—­he had been a widower for a dozen years—­had been one of those unfortunate beings of whom people said, “That poor lady is to be pitied; she never can keep a servant.”  She had in vain taken girls from the provinces, without beauty and certified to be virtuous.  One by one—­a Flemish girl, an Alsatian, three Nivernaise, two from Picardy; even a young girl from Beauce, hired on account of her certificate as “the best-behaved girl in the village”—­they were unsparingly devoured by the minotaur of the Rue Servandoni.  All were turned out of doors, with a conscientious blow in the face, by the justly irritated spouse.  When he became a widower he gave himself up to his liaisons in perfect security, but without scandal, of course, as to his passion for servants.  New country-girls, wearing strange headdresses, responded favorably, in various patois, to his propositions.  An Alsatian bow reigned six months; a Breton cap more than a year; but at last what must inevitably take place happened.  The beautiful Berenice definitely bound with fetters of iron the old libertine.  She was now all-powerful in the house, where she reigned supreme through her beauty and her talent for cooking; and as she saw her master’s face grow more congested at each repast, she made her preparations for the future.  Who could say but that M. Gaufre, a real devotee after all, would develop conscientious scruples some day, and end in a marriage, in extremis?

M. Violette knew all this; nevertheless it was important that Amedee should not be forgotten by his old relative, and sometimes, though rarely, he would leave his office a little earlier than usual, call for his son as he left the Batifol boarding-school, and take him to the Rue Servandoni.

The large drawing-rooms, transformed into a shop, where one could still see, upon forgotten panels, rococo shepherds offering doves to their shepherdesses, were always a new subject of surprise to little Amedee.  After passing through the book-shop, where thousands of little volumes with figured gray and yellow covers crowded the shelves, and boys in ecru linen blouses were rapidly tying up bundles, one entered the jewellery