"My resolution is irrevocably taken," he replied. "I can never consent
to despoil your son."
"Cruel, ungrateful boy!" cried M. de Commarin. His wrath was such,
that, when he found he could do nothing by abuse, he passed at once to
jeering. "But no," he continued, "you are great, you are noble, you are
generous; you are acting after the most approved pattern of chivalry,
viscount, I should say, my dear M. Gerdy; after the fashion of
Plutarch's time! So you give up my name and my fortune, and you leave
me. You will shake the dust from your shoes upon the threshold of my
house; and you will go out into the world. I see only one difficulty in
your way. How do you expect to live, my stoic philosopher? Have you a
trade at your fingers' ends, like Jean Jacques Rousseau's Emile? Or,
worthy M. Gerdy, have you learned economy from the four thousand francs
a month I allow you for waxing your moustache? Perhaps you have made
money on the Bourse! Then my name must have seemed very burdensome to
you to bear, since you so eagerly introduced it into such a place! Has
dirt, then, so great an attraction for you that you must jump from
your carriage so quickly? Say, rather, that the company of my friends
embarrasses you, and that you are anxious to go where you will be among
your equals.
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