He did not finish; his voice was stifled with grief and rage, and upon an almost imperious gesture to leave, Louise departed, overcome by her undertaking.

No, Maurice Roger was not a villain.  After Maria’s departure he felt ashamed and displeased with himself.  A mother! poor little thing!  Certainly he would take charge of her and the child; he would behave like a gentleman.  But, to speak plainly, he did not now love her as much as he did.  His vagabond nature was already tired of his love-affair.  This one was watered too much by tears.  Bah! he was usually lucky, and this troublesome affair would come out all right like the others.  Truly, it was as bad an accident as if one had fallen into a hole and broken his leg.  But then, who could tell?  Chance and time arrange many things.  The child might not live, perhaps; at any rate, it was perfectly natural that he should wait and see what happened.

The next morning the reckless Maurice—­who had not slept badly—­was tranquilly preparing his palette while awaiting his model, when he saw Amedee Violette enter his studio.  At the first glance he saw that the poet knew all.

“Maurice,” said Amedee, in a freezing tone, “I received a visit from Mademoiselle Louise Gerard last evening.  She told me everything—­all, do you understand me perfectly?  I have come to learn whether I am mistaken regarding you—­whether Maurice Roger is an honest man.”

A flame darted from the young artist’s eyes.  Amedee, with his livid complexion and haggard from a sleepless night and tears, was pitiful to see.  And then it was Amedee, little Amedee whom Maurice sincerely loved, for whom he had kept, ever since their college days, a sentiment, all the more precious that it flattered his vanity, the indulgent affection and protection of a superior.

“Oh!  Grand, melodramatic words already!” said he, placing his palette upon the table.  “Amedee, my dear boy, I do not recognize you, and if you have any explanation that you wish to ask of your old friend, it is not thus that you should do it.  You have received, you tell me, Mademoiselle Gerard’s confidence.  I know you are devoted to those ladies.  I understand your emotion and I think your intervention legitimate; but you see I speak calmly and in a friendly way.  Calm yourself in your turn and do not forget that, in spite of your zeal for those ladies, I am the best and dearest companion of your youth.  I am, I know, in one of the gravest situations of my life.  Let us talk of it.  Advise me; you have the right to do so; but not in that tone of voice—­that angry, threatening tone which I pardon, but which hurts and makes me doubt, were it possible, your love for me.”

“Ah! you know very well that I love you,” replied the unhappy Amedee, “but why do you need my advice?  You are frank enough to deny nothing.  You admit that it is true, that you have seduced a young girl.  Does not your conscience tell you what to do?”