His mother was dead, and M.
Violette, alas! was always overwhelmed with his grief, and, it must be admitted, somewhat neglected his little son.
The widower could not be consoled.

Since his wife's death he had grown ten years older, and his refractory lock of hair had become perfectly white.

His Lucie had been the sole joy in his commonplace and obscure life.

She was so pretty, so sweet! such a good manager, dressing upon nothing, and making things seem luxurious with only one flower! M.
Violette existed only on this dear and cruel souvenir, living his humble idyll over again in his mind.
He had had six years of this happiness.

One of his comrades took him to pass an evening with an old friend who was captain in the Invalides.