FRANCIS. Right, quite right. But suppose that he comes disguised in
the hypocrite's mask, implores your compassion with tears, and wheedles
from you a pardon, then quits you again on the morrow, and jests at your
weakness in the arms of his harlot. No, my father! He will return of
his own accord, when his conscience awakens him to repentance.

OLD M. I will write to him, on the spot, to that effect.

FRANCIS. Stop, father, one word more. Your just indignation might
prompt reproaches too severe, words which might break his heart--and
then--do you not think that your deigning to write with your own hand
might be construed into an act of forgiveness? It would be better, I
think, that you should commit the task to me?

OLD M. Do it, my son. Ah! it would, indeed, have broken my heart!
Write to him that--

FRANCIS (quickly). That's agreed, then?

OLD M. Say that he has caused me a thousand bitter tears--a thousand
sleepless nights--but, oh! do not drive my son to despair!

FRANCIS. Had you not better retire to rest, father? This affects you
too strongly.

OLD M. Write to him that a father's heart--But I charge you, drive him
not to despair. [Exit in sadness.]

FRANCIS (looking after him with a chuckle). Make thyself easy, old