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o sacrifice a phantom mother—for that’s what it comes to—for the sake of a living father?” Bigourdin agreed, but Fortinbras exp

e lonely Petit Cornich
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    ressly forbade such a disclosure. In this he sympathised with Fortinbras, although the mother was his own flesh and blood. Truly he

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    had not been lucky in sisters—one a bigote and the other an alcoolique. He expressed sombre views as to the fam

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    ily of which he was the sole male survivor. Seeing that his wife had given him no children, and that he had not the heart to m

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    arry one of the damsels of the neighbourhood, he bewailed the end of the good old name of Bigourdin. But perhaps

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    it were best. For who could tell, if he begat a couple of children, whether one would not be afflicted with alc

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    oholic, and the other with religious mania? To beget brave children for France, a man, nom de Dieu! must put forth all the splen

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on, wh atter imbibed su ch prodigious quantities of rasp berry syrup and
water. It ery long ago. Bigo urdin went on talking. “And so,?/td> ?said he, at la
st, “ the unhappy situat ion which Fort inbras, like a true Don Quixote, has
arrange n himself and Fél ise. She retai ns the sacred ideal of her mother, b
ut hol rror, very naturally , the father w hom she has always a dored. It is a b

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rtin Overshaw. He felt drawn into brotherly sympathy with Bigourdin; but, for the life of him, he could not see how anybody could be dependent for soul provisions of splendour and audacity upon Corinna Hastings. The humbly aspiring fellow moved him to patron

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ising pity. Martin strove to comfort him with specious words of hope. But Bigourdin’s mental condition was that of a man to whom wallowing in despair alone brings consolation. He had been suffering from a gathering avalanche of misfortunes. First had come

leeding wound in her i

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  • his rejection,

    followed by the unsatisfied longing of the devout lover. It cannot be denied, however, that he had borne himself

  • gallantly.

    Then the fading of his dream of the Viriot alliance had filled him with dismay. Félise’s adventure in the Rue M

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    d its resulting situation had caused him sleepless nights. Lucilla Merriton had taken him up between her fingers a

  • nd twiddled hi

    m round, thereby depriving him of volition, and having put him down in a state of bewilderment, had carried off F?/p>

  • ise. And t

    o-day, last accretion that set the avalanche rolling, his old friend Viriot had called him a breaker of honourable

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    erstandings and had sent a clerk with his bill. The avalanche swept him into the Slough of Despond, wherein he lay

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    acing himself with hopeless imaginings and the old brandy of the Brigadier. But human instinct made him beckon to

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, call him “tu” and bid him to keep an eye on the quagmire and stretch out a helping hand. He also had in view a subtle and daring scheme. “Mo