He turned to his mother's portrait, and again bowed, sweeping the floor with the plume of his hat.
"Madame, yours was a fortunate escape.

Would that I had gone with you on the journey.

Have you a spirit?
Well, then, observe me; note the bister about my eyes, the swollen lips, the shaking hand.

'Twas a lesson I learned some years ago from Monsieur le Marquis, your husband, my father.
You, Madame, died at my birth, therefore I have known no mother.

Am I a drunkard, a wine-bibber, a roisterer by night?
Say then, who taught me?
Before I became of age my foolish heart was filled with love which must spend itself upon something.