“Keep your secret; I don’t ask any questions.”
“But I don’t want you to think of me as a bad son, as a fellow who prefers the life of a vagabond in Paris to his mother’s happiness, monsieur. No; I would rather tell you everything. I am in love, monsieur; yes, madly in love with a young flower girl at the Château d’Eau, on the boulevard yonder. Violette is so pretty, and a respectable, virtuous girl, who doesn’t listen to anybody!”
“But she listens to you, doesn’t she?”
“No, monsieur, for I have never dared to tell her outright that I am in love with her; she may have seen it, but she doesn’t act as if she had. But, monsieur, I can see her every morning when I go out, and at night before I come home, for I always find an excuse to pass by her stand. But if I should go and live on your place in the country, then I should have to give up seeing Violette, in the morning or at night or ever! and you see, monsieur, I feel that it would be impossible for me to live without seeing her! It would be like not living at all; and then it seems to me that I shouldn’t be good for anything.”
“Poor boy!” murmured Monsieur Malberg; “so young, and in love already! If he is happy, I shall be very much surprised.”
“It’s very bad of me to do as I am doing, isn’t it, monsieur? On account of this love that turns my head, for this girl who perhaps doesn’t love me and will never love me, I refuse to assure my mother a peaceful life and livelihood. Ah! I feel that I am an ungrateful, wicked son! I hate myself, I would beat myself if it would do any good; but it wouldn’t cure me! This love has crept into my heart little by little; it’s more than three years now that I have seen Violette almost every day; I was very young at first, and then as I grew up I got used to loving her, and that sentiment grew up with me, and grew much faster than I did. So now there is no way to drive it from my heart; it can never leave it; and indeed if it could, I wouldn’t want it to. Could I ever guess that the day would come when it would cause me so much sorrow?”
“Don’t despair, Georget; it may be that there is still some way of arranging matters. Suggest to your mother to go and live on my estate and take care of my house; don’t tell her that there was a place there for you too; in this way your mother will be able to live in the country where you say she enjoys herself so much, and you can go to see her whenever you please; it is not far from here to Nogent,—three leagues at most.”
“Ah! how kind you are, monsieur! In that way, as you say, my mother will live comfortably, and the fresh country air will cure her entirely. It is true that it will be hard for me not to see her every day, not to live with her; but I shall be able to endure that privation, because I will say to myself: ‘It’s for her good, it’s for her happiness!’ but still it isn’t kind of me to think that I could get along without seeing mother and that I can’t make up my mind not to see Violette; is it, monsieur?”
“It isn’t your fault, my boy; nature has decreed that a new love is always fatal to the old ones.”
“But one’s love for one’s mother, monsieur! that ought not to grow any less in our hearts; but it is less unreasonable than the other. Ah! if you knew Violette, monsieur, you would understand that I cannot cease to love her. She is so pretty! She has her stand on the boulevard, near the Château d’Eau; would you like me to tell her to bring you a bouquet? She would ask nothing better, monsieur.”