At the beginning of this speech, Monsieur Godeau had supposed that the young man came to borrow money, and so he prudently threw his handkerchief over the bags that were lying around him, preparing in advance a refusal, and a polite one, for he always felt some good-will toward the father of Croisilles.  But when he had heard the young man to the end, and understood the purport of his visit, he never doubted one moment that the poor fellow had gone completely mad.  He was at first tempted to ring the bell and have him put out; but, noticing his firm demeanor, his determined look, the fermier-general took pity on so inoffensive a case of insanity.  He merely told his daughter to retire, so that she might be no longer exposed to hearing such improprieties.

While Croisilles was speaking, Mademoiselle Godeau had blushed as a peach in the month of August.  At her father’s bidding, she retired, the young man making her a profound bow, which she did not seem to notice.  Left alone with Croisilles, Monsieur Godeau coughed, rose, then dropped again upon the cushions, and, trying to assume a paternal air, delivered himself to the following effect: 

“My boy,” said he, “I am willing to believe that you are not poking fun at me, but you have really lost your head.  I not only excuse this proceeding, but I consent not to punish you for it.  I am sorry that your poor devil of a father has become bankrupt and has skipped.  It is indeed very sad, and I quite understand that such a misfortune should affect your brain.  Besides, I wish to do something for you; so take this stool and sit down there.”

“It is useless, sir,” answered Croisilles.  “If you refuse me, as I see you do, I have nothing left but to take my leave.  I wish you every good fortune.”

“And where are you going?”

“To write to my father and say good-bye to him.”

“Eh! the devil!  Any one would swear you were speaking the truth.  I’ll be damned if I don’t think you are going to drown yourself.”

“Yes, sir; at least I think so, if my courage does not forsake me.”

“That’s a bright idea!  Fie on you!  How can you be such a fool?  Sit down, sir, I tell you, and listen to me.”

Monsieur Godeau had just made a very wise reflection, which was that it is never agreeable to have it said that a man, whoever he may be, threw himself into the water on leaving your house.  He therefore coughed once more, took his snuff-box, cast a careless glance upon his shirt-frill, and continued: 

“It is evident that you are nothing but a simpleton, a fool, a regular baby.  You do not know what you are saying.  You are ruined, that’s what has happened to you.  But, my dear friend, all that is not enough; one must reflect upon the things of this world.  If you came to ask me—­well, good advice, for instance,—­I might give it to you; but what is it you are after?  You are in love with my daughter?”

“Yes, sir, and I repeat to you, that I am far from supposing that you can give her to me in marriage; but as there is nothing in the world but that, which could prevent me from dying, if you believe in God, as I do not doubt you do, you will understand the reason that brings me here.”