have now an employment which will give you your bread.  However, I often ask myself—­oh, very often—­whether I have fulfilled my duty toward you.  Ah! do not protest,” added the unhappy man, whom Amedee had clasped in his arms.  “No, my poor child, I have not loved you sufficiently; grief has filled too large a place in my heart; above all, during these last few years I have not been with you enough.  I have sought solitude.  You understand me, Amedee, I can not tell you more,” he said, with a sob.  “There are some parts of my life that you must ignore, and if it grieves you to know what I have become during that time, you must never think of it; forget it.  I beg of you, my child, do not judge me severely.  And one of these days, if I die-ah! we must expect it—­the burden of my grief is too heavy for me to bear, it crushes me!  Well, my child, if I die, promise me to be indulgent to my memory, and when you think of your father only say:  ‘He was very unhappy!’”

Amedee shed tears upon his father’s shoulder, who softly stroked his son’s beautiful hair with his trembling hands.

“My father, my good father!” sobbed Amedee, “I love and respect you with all my heart.  I will dress myself quickly and we will go to the office together; we will return the same way and dine like a pair of good friends.  I beg of you, do not ask me to leave you to-day!”

But M. Violette suddenly arose as if he had formed some resolution.

“No, Amedee,” said he, firmly.  “I have said what I had to say to you, and you will remember it.  That is sufficient.  Go and amuse yourself this evening with your friends.  Sadness is dangerous at your age.  As for myself, I shall go to dine with Pere Bastide, who has just received his pension, and has invited me more than twenty times to come and see his little house at Grand Montrouge.  It is understood; I wish it.  Now then, wipe your eyes and kiss me.”

Having tenderly embraced his son, M. Violette left the room.  Amedee could hear him in the vestibule take down his hat and cane, open and close the door, and go down the stairs with a heavy step.  A quarter of an hour after, as the young man was crossing the Luxembourg to go to the office, he met Louise Gerard with her roll of music in her hand, going to give some lessons in the city.  He walked a few steps beside her, and the worthy girl noticed his red eyes and disturbed countenance.

“What is the matter with you, Amedee?” she inquired, anxiously.

“Louise,” he replied, “do you not think that my father has changed very much in the last few months?”

She stopped and looked at him with eyes shining with compassion.

“Very much changed, my poor Amedee.  You would not believe me if I told you that I had not remarked it.  But whatever may be the cause—­how shall I say it?—­that has affected your father’s health, you should think of only one thing, my friend; that is, that he has been tender and devoted to you; that he became a widower very young and he did not remarry; that he has endured, in order to devote himself to his only child, long years of solitude and unhappy memories.  You must think of that, Amedee, and that only.”