sand francs a
year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father entered
my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without
food or shelter. He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.
I loved my father. Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my
situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned
the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I
insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner said than
done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old--"

"What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?"

"Do I repent of it! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the
bread I gave him."

M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not
escape the old fellow's notice.

"Hear, before you condemn me," he continued. "There was I at
twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations for the sake
of my father,--no more friends, no more flirtations, nothing. In the
evenings, to augment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law
papers for a notary. I denied myself even the luxury of tobacco.
Notwithstanding this, the old fellow complained without ceasing; he
regretted his lost fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to
buy this, or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah, heaven
alone knows what I suffered! I was not born to live alone and grow old,
like a dog. I longed for the pleasures of a home and a family. My dream
was to marry, to adore a good wife, by whom I might be loved a little,
and to see innocent healthy little ones gambolling about my knees. But
pshaw! when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two from
my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I said: 'My lad, when you earn but
three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cherished father to
support, it is your duty to stifle such desires, and remain a bachelor.'
And yet I met a young girl. It is thirty years now since that time;
well! just look at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato.
Her name was Hortense. Who can tell what has become of her? She was
beautiful and poor. Well, I was quite an old man when my father died,
the wretch, the--"

"M. Tabaret!" interrupted the magistrate, "for shame, M. Tabaret!"

"But I have already told you, I have forgiven him, sir. However, you
will soon understand my anger. On the day of his death, looking in his
secretary, I fo