“Timid fellow, go!” said Maurice to him, as he conducted him to the door, laughing.

What longings!  What dreams!  They made up all of poor Amedee’s life.  Sometimes they were sad, for he suffered in seeing his father indulge himself more and more in his vice.  No woman loved him, and he never had one louis in his pocket for pleasure or liberty.  But he did not complain.  His life was noble and happy!  He smiled with pleasure as he thought of his good friends; his heart beat in great throbs as he thought of love; he wept with rapture over beautiful verses.  The spectacle of life, through hope and the ideal, seemed to him transfigured.  Happy Amedee!  He was not yet twenty years old!

CHAPTER VII

A GENTLE COUNSELLOR

One sombre, misty, winter morning, as Amedee lingered in his bed, his father entered, bringing him a letter that the wife of the concierge had just brought up.  The letter was from Maurice, inviting his friend to dinner that evening at seven o’clock at Foyots, to meet some of his former companions at the Lycee Henri IV.

“Will you excuse me for not dining with you this evening, papa?” said Amedee, joyfully.  “Maurice Roger entertains us at a restaurant.”

The young man’s gayety left him suddenly when he looked at his father, who had seated himself on the side of the bed.  He had become almost frightful to look at; old before his time, livid of complexion, his eyes bloodshot, the rebellious lock of hair straggling over his right temple.  Nothing was more heartbreaking than his senile smile when he placed his bony trembling hands upon his thighs.  Amedee, who knew, alas, why his father had reached such a pass, felt his heart moved with pity and shame.

“Are you suffering to-day?” asked the young man.  “Would you prefer that we should dine together as usual?  I will send word to Maurice.  Nothing is easier.”

“No, my child, no!” replied M. Violette, in a hollow tone.  “Go and amuse yourself with your friends.  I know perfectly well that the life you lead with me is too monotonous.  Go and amuse yourself, it will please me—­only there is an idea that troubles me more than usual—­and I want to confide it to you.”

“What is it then, dear papa?”

“Amedee, last March your mother had been dead fifteen years.  You hardly knew her.  She was the sweetest and best of creatures, and all that I can wish you is, that you may meet such a woman, make her your companion for life, and be more fortunate than I, my poor Amedee, and keep her always.  During these frightful years since your mother’s death I have suffered, do you see? suffered horribly, and I have never, never been consoled.  If I have lived—­if I have had the strength to live, in spite of all, it was only for you and in remembrance of her.  I think I have nearly finished my task.  You are a young man, intelligent and honest, and you