"Send him to me."
"Here, monsieur?"
"Yes."
"Oh, monsieur, have pity on him, have pity on him, I beseech you!" cried Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly. "I swear to you that it was not his fault. The poor boy is innocent of any wrong-doing, even in thought. He hasn't the slightest suspicion of all this, I am sure. Have pity on him, I implore you!"
"Send him to me, I say."
"He shall leave the house this very night, monsieur, I swear it!"
"And my daughter! You want her to die of grief, perhaps!"
"One word, monsieur. It may be that mademoiselle's affection for Onésime is only a youthful fancy that time and absence will soon cause her to forget."
"But what if she does not forget it? What if this love is really deep and true, as it must be, if it has once really taken root in a heart like Sabine's? No, no, it would be an insult to the poor child to believe her capable of loving in that way. She is her mother over again, I tell you."
"Alas! monsieur, what you say nearly breaks my heart, and yet I am forced to admit that you are right. I never realised, until this very moment, all the possible consequences of this deplorable intimacy; for, unfortunately, this is not the only thing that must be considered."