“Yes, it is true.”
The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted with suffering, went on:
“God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to live alone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother, since I promised her not to do so. Then—you understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Rue d'Eperlan 18, in the third story, the second door,—I tell you all this, don't forget,—but a young girl, who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true woman, eh? You comprehend, my lad?”
“Yes, father.”
“So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, something substantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and the remembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which we three lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, for certain—listen—listen, my lad. I might have made a will—I haven't done so. I did not wish to do so—for it is not necessary to write down things—things of this sort—it is too hurtful to the legitimate children—and then it embroils everything—it ruins everyone! Look you, the stamped paper, there's no need of it—never make use of it. If I am rich, it is because I have not made waste of what I have during my own life. You understand, my son?”
“Yes, father.”