On the evening of that sad day Agathe refused to play at cards, and
sat on her sofa plunged in such grief that the tears stood in her
handsome eyes.
"What is the matter, Madame Bridau?" asked old Claparon.
"She thinks her boy will have to beg his bread because he has got the
bump of painting," said Madame Descoings; "but, for my part, I am not
the least uneasy about the future of my step-son, little Bixiou, who
has a passion for drawing. Men are born to get on."
"You are right," said the hard and severe Desroches, who, in spite of
his talents, had never himself got on in the position of assistant-head
of a department. "Happily I have only one son; otherwise, with my
eighteen hundred francs a year, and a wife who makes barely twelve
hundred out of her stamped-paper office, I don't know what would
become of me. I have just placed my boy as under-clerk to a lawyer; he
gets twenty-five francs a month and his breakfast. I give him as much
more, and he dines and sleeps at home. That's all he gets; he must
manage for himself, but he'll make his way. I keep the fellow harder
at work than if he were at school, and some day he will be a
barrister. When I give him money to go to the theatre, he is as happy
as a king and kisses me. Oh, I keep a tight hand on him, and he
renders me an account of all he spends. You are too good to your
children, Madame Bridau; if your son wants to go through hardships and
privations, let him; they'll make a man of him.
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