"Pray forgive me, monsieur, if I disturb you," said Georget, approaching the count; "but I have just learned that—that monsieur is going to Paris to-day."
"Yes, that is true; but what does it matter to you, my boy, so long as I do not take you, as you begged me not to do? Never fear, I don't need you; I shall take nobody but Pongo."
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, you see, I have reflected—I have realized that I was wrong to say that to monsieur, for I ought to be at his service, I ought to be always ready to do what he wishes; and then—you see—I had no right to ask monsieur not to take me to Paris when he went there; and that is why—if monsieur would like me to go with him—why I will be ready whenever monsieur says, I won't keep him waiting."
The count watched Georget closely while he was speaking, and replied gently:
"I thank you, Georget, for the effort that you make to please me, but I tell you again, I will not subject you to such a severe trial; you have a horror of Paris, I know, and I can understand it; you might meet someone there whom you wish never to see again, whom, on the contrary, you wish to forget entirely; I will not expose you to dangers which you are wise enough to avoid. Besides, I have no need of your service in Paris; so calm your fears, my friend, you shall remain here."
The poor boy was struck dumb; he did not know what to say; he turned pale and staggered, and at last, finding that he had not the strength to conceal longer what he felt, he fell on his knees in front of Monsieur de Brévanne, stammering in a voice broken by sobs:
"Oh! take me, monsieur! Take me, I beg you! It isn't my fault, but I can't stand it any longer! I won't speak to her, monsieur; I won't speak to her, that I swear to you; but if I can see her for a moment, just a moment; if I can know that she is still there in the place where I used to see her, then I will come right away, I will come back calmer and more at peace, and I will work even better than ever, for my head will not be in a whirl as it is now."
"Rise, my poor boy! At all events, you are honest now, and I prefer that. What is the use of disguising what you feel? Moreover, my poor boy, you do not yet possess the art of dissembling; stay as you are; it is more rare, but it is much better. Well, as you can't live without seeing her, you may go to Paris with me."
"Oh! how kind you are, monsieur!"
"But be careful! be prudent! remember the past! Ah! if twenty years had passed since you had seen the object of your love, I should have less fear for you; but after only a fortnight, it's very dangerous!"