My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing,
and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I
came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to
him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him,
and said: "When did you come, father?"

"Last night."

"Did you come straight here, as usual?"

"Yes."

"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you."

I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened would
begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just
written, and gave it to Joseph to post.

When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the
mantel-piece, said to me: "My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss."

"I am listening, father."

"You promise me to be frank?"

"Am I not accustomed to be so?"

"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite
Gautier?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what this woman was?"

"A kept woman."

"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister
and me this year?"

"Yes, father, I admit it."