“To marry her?  That is my intention.  But, Amedee, do you think of my mother?  This marriage will distress her, destroy her fond hopes and ambitions.  I hope to be able to gain her consent; only I must have time to turn myself.  Later—­very soon.  I do not say—­if the child lives.”

This word, torn from Maurice by the cynicism which is in the heart of all egotists, made Amedee angry.

“Your mother!” exclaimed he.  “Your mother is the widow of a French officer who died facing the enemy.  She will understand it, I am sure, as a matter of honor and duty.  Go and find her, tell her that you have ruined this unfortunate child.  Your mother will advise you to marry her.  She will command you to do it.”

This argument was forcible and direct, and impressed Maurice; but his friend’s violence irritated him.

“You go to work badly, Amedee, I repeat it,” said he, raising his tone.  “You have no right to prejudge my mother’s opinion, and I receive no orders from anybody.  After all, nothing authorizes you to do it; if it is because you were in love with Maria—­”

A furious cry interrupted him.  Amedee, with wild eyes and shaking his fists, walked toward Maurice, speaking in a cutting tone: 

“Well, yes!  I loved her,” said he, “and I wished to make her my wife.  You, who no longer love her, who took her out of caprice, as you have taken others, you have destroyed all of my dreams for the future.  She preferred you, and, understand me, Maurice, I am too proud to complain, too just to hold spite against you.  I am only here to prevent your committing an infamy.  Upon my honor!  If you repulse me, our friendship is destroyed forever, and I dare not think of what will happen between us, but it will be terrible!  Alas!  I am wrong, I do not talk to you as I ought.  Maurice, there is time yet!  Only listen to your heart, which I know is generous and good.  You have wronged an innocent child and driven a poor and worthy family to despair.  You can repair the evil you have caused.  You wish to.  You will!  I beg of you, do it out of respect for yourself and the name you bear.  Act like a brave man and a gentleman!  Give this young girl—­whose only wrong has been in loving you too much—­give the mother of your child your name, your heart, your love.  You will be happy with her and through her.  Go!  I shall not be jealous of your happiness, but only too glad to have found my friend, my loyal Maurice once more, and to be able still to love and admire him as heretofore.”

Stirred by these warm words, and fatigued by the discussion and struggle, the painter reached out his hands to his friend, who pressed them in his.  Suddenly he looked at Amedee and saw his eyes shining with tears, and, partly from sorrow, but more from want of will and from moral weakness, to end it he exclaimed: 

“You are right, after all.  We will arrange this matter without delay.  What do you wish me to do?”