Chapter VII: Part III: I (1)

THE COMPANION IN ARMS

WHEN Margaret Roquevillard came into her father’s study, as she did each day, to light the lamp and draw the curtains, and take up if she could some special share of his burdens for him, she found him gazing out of the window, watching the rapidly declining daylight.

“Is that you, Margaret?” he said. “There’s no light any more for working.”

He made excuses for his reverie as if it were a weakness in him, but Margaret knew the cause of this preoccupation, though he would not confess it.

“Those gentlemen have not come yet?” she asked.

“I expect them any moment now,” he said. “They were to see Maurice in prison this afternoon.”

“Who is going to make the main argument? Will it be Mr. Hamel?”

“No. Mr. Hamel is the president of the benchers in our order. Maurice being a member of the bar, I begged the president to conduct his case. It’s a tradition of the bar. Mr. Hamel will give us the prestige of his half a century of professional honour, but he thinks he is too old, and too much of a specialist in questions of civil law, to make the argument. He wants Battard to do that. Battard has the highest reputation of any member of our bar in jury trials.”

The young woman made a little face at the mention of Mr. Battard’s name.

“I’ve heard him, father. You speak much better than he does.”

But the old lawyer replied almost crossly: “I don’t speak well, little girl. I simply say what I have to say.”

“Why don’t you defend him yourself, father?”

“That wouldn’t do at all. Don’t you see it wouldn’t, Margaret?”

She came to him, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, leant her head against his breast.

“Father, have you forgiven Maurice?”

“He hasn’t asked me.”

“That’s because he feels so badly.”

“Yes, no doubt. Fate can give us cruel blows. He at least has been responsible for his own ill-luck.”

“Remember mamma.”

He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Don’t ask me to be weak, Margaret. I have been to see him twice at the gaol. I found him walled up in his pride. He gave me no sign of regret for what he’d done, and all the woe he’s caused us. I am waiting only for one word from him to be ready to forgive him, yet we exchanged only a few insignificant remarks.”

“When I go to see him he cries about mother with me. He doesn’t dare with you.”

“It’s his place to speak first. I shall wait.”

Margaret could not see, with her head bent, the sweetly sad look that spread over his old face, and softened the severity of his words. She repeated:

“He feels very badly. He’s unhappy.”

“And aren’t we?” asked Mr. Roquevillard.

He raised the girl’s head gently.

“What have you been doing this afternoon, Margaret?” he asked in his turn, changing the subject.

“I took little Julian for a walk. Then I wrote a long letter to Hubert.”

“Ah, so did I.”

The fate of Hubert was still a source of some anxiety to them. The last letter from the Soudan had brought news that the young officer was down with fever, ill in an isolated cabin, without a doctor. He made light himself of this unlucky piece of work, not taking it seriously, but a certain note of detachment in his letter, contrasted with a more than ordinarily affectionate way of putting his good-byes, struck both father and sister, and deeply affected them. They were silent, their hearts shaken. Margaret lighted the lamp, to chase away the darkness that was so full of evil omens. As she drew the curtains together some one knocked at the door.

“It’s they,” said Mr. Roquevillard.

And the girl had just time to disappear through the door that led into the apartment as her father went forward to receive his visitors. Mr. Hamel came in first, followed by Mr. Battard.

The president of the benchers enjoyed a respect and esteem at the bar in Chambéry which were the natural deserts of great age, great knowledge of the law and a dignified private life. He was a man of seventy-five, so thin that he rattled round in his threadbare frock-coat, a garment which he used to declare obstinately would last as long as he did. In winter time he draped himself in an antiquated overcoat, never bothering to put his arms through the sleeves. Above his shaven face a crown of white hair stood out in disorder, and his colourless cheeks were almost transparently thin. His tall figure was bent like those too slender poplars that are twisted by the wind, but his character was upright and unbroken. Nothing could ever have swerved him from the lines of conduct which the traditions of his family, in the best sense of the word, and his firm convictions had laid down for him at an early age. Cold and distant in bearing, a man of few words, he showed as much rigidity in his principles as proud courtesy in the relations of his daily life, displaying his high-mindedness as much in the ordinary circumstances as in the more important matters of existence. Good fortune and bad he had met with an even temper. Yet he had known more of bad fortune than of good in his later years, at the end of his life’s journey, when a man deserves repose. The unfortunate speculations of a son had ruined him, but he had set himself again quite simply to the task of gaining his daily bread. Rarely appearing in court, he was the counsellor most sought for in delicate matters by those who expected what was equitable and right. One seldom saw him outside of his office, a poor and shabby room, where one went with special cases for arbitrage and settlement as to a sovereign judge. When he left his office it was always in the evening, to walk rapidly to church, his air chilly and hurried, indifferent to the world about him, listening only to the voice of God, whose summons he waited for with patience and resignation.

One of those ancient friendships, by which people sharing the same kind of life and trials are united as strongly as by the ties of blood, united the old lawyer and Mr. Roquevillard, despite the great disparity in their ages. He had watched over the professional début of Mr. Roquevillard, who in turn had looked out for him in the wreck that later overwhelmed his material fortunes, holding out against his creditors, obtaining delays, organising sales and payments to the best advantage. When the younger man was laid low in his turn the elder came out of his retreat, conscious though he was of the chill and feebleness of his years.

Mr. Battard, by his reputation, was a natural second. This young man--for thus the old man called him in spite of his forty-five years--always caused him some anxiety, by reason of a certain cynicism in his conversation, and a tendency to take up cases for the fees he could get from them; but at the bar he was as formidable as a host, by turns ironical and flowery, mocking and eloquent. He would modulate his voice like a tenor, posturing like a favourite actor, and took at once the chief rôle, showing off his fine beard, his regular features, his finely polished bald head as if they were insignia of rank, stirring things up, flinging himself about, dominating the whole stage, and finally, with the cleverness of a conjurer, sweeping up jury and opposing counsel at once in the folds of his robe, which he flourished round him like a battle standard. This incontestable superiority in the court-room must be taken account of, and Mr. Hamel, a humble follower of truth, who detested all the trappings of eloquence and declamation, stilled his personal preferences to make the acquittal of his friend’s son more sure.

Even though Mr. Roquevillard had always kept Mr. Battard at a distance, and in the court-room would pitilessly turn inside out all this cleverness and seductiveness, by simple tactics that consisted in going straight to the point of things with the swiftness of a charge of cavalry, such was the force of professional loyalty that Mr. Battard had eagerly accepted the defence of Maurice, and had already shown himself active and resolute in his plans for it.

After they had shaken hands the president summed up the situation in a few words:

“You see, my dear friend, that I have begged our learned brother Battard to come to our assistance. I am old, and I don’t know how to move people. He will make the argument and I shall assist him. We have studied the brief together and seen your son in prison. One difficulty presents itself.”

“What is that?” asked the anxious father.

“Battard can explain it to you better than I.”

This latter gentleman stirred his fine head importantly, but contented himself with a short and simple explanation, sensible enough to know that fine effects were useless outside the court-room.

“Yes, I’ve studied the brief. The material fact of abuse of confidence is shown by the notary’s declaration, and by the report of the commissioner of police. I have found no proofs against your son, but grave presumptions. He was aware of the deposit of the money, he was the last of them all to leave the office, and had got possession of the keys. He might have got the secret of the combination from the memorandum book, in which the head clerk had written it; he had not much in the way of personal resources, and he was bent on eloping with his chief’s wife. With this they have cooked up a regular accusation. Add his departure to a foreign country, his silence, his tardy return. The deposition of the said Philippeaux especially is full of malice. This boy must have been jealous of his more favoured colleague. I suspect him of an unfortunate passion for Mrs. Frasne. A dangerous woman, that. A little thin, but fine eyes. Not my type at all.”

A coarse strain in his make-up prevented him from realising that this reflection was misplaced, that the presence of the father of the accused should have made him more reserved in his remarks. He began again after a pause:

“It’s not enough to protest that he is innocent. The theft being admitted, the jury will look for a culprit. We must point one out to them. The offensive, I have often noticed, is more certain in results than the defensive. It distracts the jury’s mind, and fixes it somewhere else. I have tried it often with success. Now, in this kind of case, the true culprit is plainly designated.”

He spread out a code on the table, and turned over the leaves. His two hearers listened to him without interruption.

“Observe that Mrs. Frasne runs no risk. She is covered by Article 880: _Abstractions committed by husbands at the expense of their wives, by wives at the expense of their husbands ... can give rise only to civil actions for damages_.”

“We know that,” observed Mr. Hamel.

“Within the family there is no theft. To fix suspicion on Mrs. Frasne at the trial is not denouncing her. But there is something better still. My instinct rarely deceives me. I have seen the Frasnes’ marriage contract. I had a shrewd idea I should discover something there. Through the enterprise of an attorney at Grenoble, I arranged a little investigation, and I discovered there proof that Mrs. Frasne, in taking one hundred thousand francs from her husband’s safe, believed she was only taking what belonged to her.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Roquevillard, interrupting.

“You’ll see what I mean. It’s so clear it blinds you. Her husband, in this marriage contract, agreed to a settlement of one hundred thousand francs.”

“In case of her survival?”

“No, immediate. But naturally it was revocable in case of divorce, and the husband retained control of it. The arrangement was for a separate maintenance account. Nevertheless, Mrs. Frasne, ignorant of the law, might have supposed that this money was actually hers, and that in leaving her husband’s household she had the right to take it away with her. It was an absurd way of looking at it, but for that very reason just the way a woman would have worked it out: in this way I explain to myself why the thief took particular pains to appropriate only one hundred thousand francs out of an envelope enclosing a deposit of one hundred and twenty thousand. That was not theft, it was reimbursement. Mrs. Frasne believed she was availing herself of her just rights.”

“Yes,” concluded Mr. Roquevillard, interested in so solid an argument, “the contract explains all.”

“And it is acquittal, certain and incontestable,” declared Mr. Battard, growing animated, and beginning to wave his long arms. “What jury would hold out against such a demonstration? I’ve very rarely held so many trump cards in my hand.”

“You don’t always defend the innocent,” insinuated the president.

“Innocent or guilty, it’s the proof which counts. Here we have it.”

The father of the accused, who wanted a complete rehabilitation, next took up the subject.

“The discovery of the contract is indeed a good point for the defence. Your eloquence, Battard, will make the best use of it, and we can count on ultimate success. But there is one thing I must ask you at once to bring out in your argument. Maurice did not go away with Mrs. Frasne without resources of his own. He had more than five thousand francs with him, borrowed for the most part from his two sisters, his great-uncle Stephen and his aunt Camille Roquevillard, who will testify to it if necessary. In the village of Orta, where they stayed, he received, further, a cheque for eight thousand francs remitted by the Society of Credit, from the Chambéry branch, who will produce the cancelled voucher for us. These explanations are indispensable from two points of view. In the first place, they anticipate a possible new accusation, which the plaintiff, abandoning Article 408 on the abuse of confidence, may base on Article 380 _in fine_. Theft between married persons doesn’t come within the scope of the law, that’s understood; but the penal code adds: ‘With respect to all other individuals who shall have received or applied to their own use all or any part of the things stolen, they shall be punished as if guilty of theft.’ There must be nothing equivocal on this head. And this paragraph will not apply at all if my son is cleared from all suspicion of having lived with this woman at her expense. I hold this absolutely essential to the preservation of his honour.”

“Very good,” approved Mr. Hamel.

“Very good,” repeated Mr. Battard indifferently.

And Mr. Roquevillard, whose face had been glowing with excitement, grew serene again with the hope of passing safely through the test, and concluded in two words:

“Now we are armed, and victory is certain.”

The president’s eyes, pale blue and dim with age, were lifted sadly.

“My friend, haven’t you forgotten the difficulty I spoke of at the beginning of our interview?”

It was the old agony coming back again.

“What difficulty?”

Mr. Battard at once assumed the first place again, never having willingly given it up.

“There you are. Our fine plan, and I have not a single doubt of its success, collapses on account of your son’s obstinacy.”

“My son’s obstinacy?”

“Exactly. We have just explained to him in prison our plan to save him. Do you know what he said to us?”

“I’m afraid I can guess.”

“He said he formally objected to having Mrs. Frasne’s name mentioned in his defence, and that if it is, he will assume all the blame himself at once.”

“I was afraid of it,” muttered Mr. Roquevillard beneath his breath.

“I tried in vain to make him see the absurdity of this chivalry, to explain that he was not accusing anybody, since Mrs. Frasne was not punishable under the law. I told him that what his mistress had done could even be explained by her inexperience of business, her erroneous interpretation of her marriage contract. It was all useless. I ran against an invincible obstinacy.”

“Did he give you any reasons?”

“Just one--his honour.”

“Honour is one reason.”

“No, it’s only a sentiment. In courts of justice we must not take the point of view of honour, but of the law.”

The president, who did not approve this theory, presented the question in another form.

“It’s Mrs. Frasne’s honour especially that he takes into account. To save his own honour he must establish the fact that he has neither stolen a sum of money nor profited by the theft of some one else. He can prove the first by argument from Mrs. Frasne’s marriage contract, and the second by an affidavit from the International Bank of Milan, where Mrs. Frasne’s funds were deposited. But he objects categorically to this line of proof.”

“Did you speak of it to him yourself?”

“I did, and I told him that he was running a great danger to go before a jury thus unarmed.”

“What did he say to you?”

“That he would not let Mrs. Frasne be accused of anything whatsoever, and that he forbade his defender even to utter her name. We found him immovable. ‘Well, then,’ Mr. Battard objected to him, ‘how do you wish us to defend you?’ ‘How can any one think me guilty?’ he replied proudly. ‘Let them consider where I come from, and who I am. That ought to be enough.’”

“What a child!” began Mr. Battard, stroking his fine beard contentedly. “Undoubtedly an honourable family is a potent argument, and I count on making good use of it at the trial. But it is accessory to the main argument, as it were. It doesn’t go to the bottom of the matter. One doesn’t use parents for arguments. You might as well use dead ancestors.”

“They bear witness for our characters,” replied Mr. Hamel, not without some solemnity.

“There is a guilty party,” continued Mr. Battard. “Don’t let us forget that. Willingly or unwillingly, the jury will look for one. If it isn’t the lover it’s the mistress. If it isn’t the mistress it’s the lover. We have proofs that it is the mistress. Shall we refuse to produce them? There’s no sense in it. I warned your son, my good brother, that I could not consent to defend him on these conditions, and I have come to say the same to you. You know how warmly I should have undertaken it, that I should have brought to bear my utmost pains upon it. Tried on these lines, what can be done? As you see, I am deeply affected by this decision, but it is impossible for me to present myself in court thus bound.”

The unfortunate father of the accused held out his hand.

“I lose very valuable assistance,” he said; “perhaps even the boy’s safety. But the defence must not be fettered.”

Both lawyers were equally moved, despite the lack of mutual sympathy between them. One cannot share the same professional life, the same conflicts, the same mental preoccupations, without some trace of sympathy remaining.

“See him yourself,” said Mr. Battard again, rising. “Perhaps you can get him to consent where we have failed.”

“No, I am afraid not.”

“If you succeed in persuading him, I am at your service still, and you can count on my finest efforts. It’s nearly six now, so I must be excused. I’ve a business engagement that I must keep.”

Mr. Roquevillard went with him to the door, and thanked him again on the threshold.

“We have been on opposite sides sometimes, brother Battard, but I shan’t forget that in this most important matter of my life you unhesitatingly put your devotion and talent at my disposal.”

“No, no, not at all,” replied the great trial lawyer, astonished at his own good will; “I thought to come out of it better than this. It was a fine case. See if you can persuade your son. I’ll take it up again for you.”

When Mr. Roquevillard returned to his office Mr. Hamel had gone up to the fire and was poking the coals absent-mindedly. He sat down opposite to him, and both stayed there a long time thinking, saying nothing.

“My voice has never carried very far,” said the president, pursuing his inward reasonings, “and age has broken it. I’ve never known how to do anything but make things clear, not move people. However, I shall be on hand. I’ll say a few words about the family of the accused, and dwell on his own good character. But there must be some one else to make the argument. I can only be your assistant, my friend.”

He did not offer any opinion on Maurice’s attitude, perhaps did not explain it to himself. He maintained that defiant, not to say disdainful, attitude toward women which you find often in the latter days of an austere and well-disciplined life. The honour of a Mrs. Frasne did not seem to him worthy of so much consideration. There was a story told of him as illustrating the excess of this trait in him, namely, that he had bowed once to a lady of doubtful reputation on the street, and she had taken great credit to herself for it, since his respect carried such great weight everywhere; and that when he heard about it afterwards he never again saluted anybody in the city’s streets for fear of repeating his mistake.

“Will the jury guess the generous reason of his silence, do you think?” Mr. Roquevillard asked himself aloud, knowing his son better. “It isn’t likely.”

“It’s impossible,” declared Mr. Hamel plainly. “Your son will be lost, though there’s no reason for shielding this person. But haven’t we the right to defend him in spite of himself?”

“How do you mean?”

“A defence is obligatory at trials, as you know, as well as I. In default of a lawyer of the accused’s own choosing, the president appoints an official one for him. If Mr. Battard is officially appointed, and it will be enough if I, as president, mention him to the presiding judge, he will be completely at liberty again to make his argument. Yet he would run the risk of being repudiated by his client.”

“But such a repudiation would influence the jury unfavourably.”

“I don’t see any other way. At least----”

And the fine old man stopped talking, deaf to the repeated questions put to him by Mr. Roquevillard.

“The case is lost,” the latter murmured at last.

Then Mr. Hamel rose: “You believe in God, my friend, like me. Ask help from Him. He will give you inspiration. Your son is innocent. He must be acquitted. His real fault is not one that calls for man’s justice. It touches only himself, and unhappily his family.”

As he prepared to go, his face already toward the door, he turned back again, and all of a sudden held put his hands to his professional brother, an unusual gesture showing the tenderness that had lain concealed beneath this stiff energy of his for so many years. It was surprising and sweet, like an expression of freshness and purity on an old woman’s face, or flowers that go on blooming even after the snow has come. The two men embraced each other with emotion.

“You at least won’t abandon us,” said Mr. Roquevillard. “Thank you.”

“I don’t forget,” replied the old man.

And flinging his overcoat round his shoulders, its empty sleeves flapping, he went away hastily down the corridor, his host scarcely able to keep up with him and show him to the door.

Left alone, Mr. Roquevillard seated himself at his work-table, where so many difficulties, material and moral, had been worked out before, his head in his hands, seeking for some way in which to save his son, without whose safety the whole line of Roquevillards would be lost as well. He was less arbitrary, more indulgent, and more apt than Mr. Hamel to understand men and life, shut up as the latter had been with his transcendental prejudices as in a tower; and he recognised in Maurice’s resolution that tenacity and sense of responsibility which from generation to generation had created and maintained the strength of the Roquevillard family. That the boy was using this same force to destroy it was the pity of the thing. To create his individual happiness he had compromised the past and future of his people, though their distinctive traits, nevertheless, showed even in his faults. His father acquitted him of cowardliness and baseness, reflecting that the young man might maintain the family traditions at their right level, and use for their normal ends the faculties that he had so perverted, if he could only take again his proper place in his home and in society. At all costs he must be rescued and completely freed from this love that he would not repudiate.

“At least----” repeated Mr. Roquevillard, who had been struck by this mysterious phrase of Mr. Hamel. What had he meant by this reservation?

He raised his bent head, and, leaning back in his easy-chair, gazed straight in front of him. His eyes rested on the map of La Vigie hanging on the wall, outside the circle of the lamplight, and barely distinguishable in the shadow. It brought his land before him in the guise of ancestor and counsellor. And yet at the same time the cruel syllogisms of Mr. Battard echoed persistently in his mind.

“There has been a theft. Therefore, there is a guilty person. Who is it? If it isn’t the lover it’s the mistress. He won’t have the mistress accused, therefore it will be the lover. How could he reply to this argument in a way to convince the jury’s rustic brains?”

And suddenly, as he traced the blurred outlines of the map, he thought an idea broke forth in it, like a light in the darkness.

“If we suppress the fact of theft, then no one will be guilty. The jury will have to acquit him. How can we do away with the theft?”

And La Vigie spoke to him.

Some moments later Margaret knocked discreetly at his door.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m alone.”

“Well, father, what have you decided?”

He explained the new danger which arose from Maurice’s obstinacy. “Mr Battard gives us up. He declines to plead,” he said finally.

“Then who will defend him?” she asked, quite confused, “and how?”

“Don’t distress yourself yet, little girl,” he said. “I think I know a way.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you later. Let me stay here now and think it over. It will involve making a great sacrifice.”

“Make it quickly, father.”

The girl’s eyes burned with such a light that all her pure and generous soul shone through it.

“Dear little girl,” he murmured proudly.

She smiled at him, with the rare smile of those who have lived long with sorrow.

“Father,” she said, “I have always thought you would be the one to defend him.”

II

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

“AM I in the way?” asked Margaret.

She stopped on the threshold of her father’s office, seeing such a numerous company gathered there.

“I was going to look for you,” said her father. “You belong here with us.”

A tall, withered old man, with his coat closely buttoned up, who was leaning on the mantelpiece, beneath which a bright fire was burning, threw out in a high head voice:

“In my time they didn’t admit women to the family councils.”

“It isn’t a woman that’s compromised the family, however,” came the brisk reply from the depths of an armchair, where sat a rather vigorous, well-matured lady dressed in black.

But it was purely a discussion of principles with both of them, for they promptly made truce and welcomed the girl with a good grace. Margaret greeted each member of the family circle in turn. First came her great-uncle Stephen Roquevillard, who, though older than Mr. Hamel, carried the burden of his eighty years quite lightly; then her aunt by marriage, Mrs. Camille Roquevillard; then her cousin Leo, the latter’s son, a young manufacturer at Pontcharra in Dauphiné; and finally Charles Marcellaz, who had arrived that morning from Lyons.

Outside the windows a heavy sky, charged with snow, seemed to hang low above the castle, almost crushing it. Already the clouds swung round the turret, and the leafless trees stretched their supplicating branches upward. Only the ivy on the tower of the archives preserved its tint of eternal spring. The room, in spite of its four windows, seemed filled with the bitterness of the day. The book-cases, the portraits, the landscape by Hugard, seemed to wear a look of sadness. The latest law reports, piled on a stand, had not been bound, like those of the preceding years. The big table, covered with briefs, one of them still open, displaying its citations and extracts from the statutes, showed a continuity of work which even the gravest cares had not interrupted; while a fresh bunch of chrysanthemums, placed before a photograph of Mrs. Valentine Roquevillard, revealed the daily care given it by a woman’s hand.

The lawyer begged his guests to be seated. He seemed to reflect a moment, his head bent. He had aged greatly in the past year. The hair of his head and his short, stiff moustache were turning grey. Two lines appeared around his mouth; his neck beneath his collar was thin and hollow. His cheeks were more dull in tint and the flesh less firm. All these signs of physical failing Margaret never saw without an aching at her heart. What a difference there was between the man who sat there now at his table, lost in his thoughts, and that other form robustly erect and joyful outlined against the sky on the hilltop at last summer’s vintage.

When he stood up, with a single gesture he was himself again. Beneath the deep arch of his eyebrows his gaze shone out imperiously as of old, difficult to withstand, fixing itself on the faces of his hearers with an embarrassing precision. The moment he began to speak his new attitude showed that he was the head and front of the family, not easily put down or overborne by many trials.

“I have called you together,” he began, “because our family is in danger. Now, we all bear the same name, excepting Charles Marcellaz, who stands in the place of a son to me because he represents my daughter Germaine. Felicie and Hubert are too far away to be consulted, but their lives testify to such self-sacrifice that their opinions need not be asked. I know they are disinterested.”

“You have good news of the captain?” inquired Mrs. Camille Roquevillard. Her nephew’s uniform had always impressed her favourably, and she was incapable of thinking of more than one person at a time.

Margaret answered her.

“No news for some time, and the last was not very good. He had come down with fever.”

“Court opens December 6th,” began Mr. Roquevillard again, “about three weeks from now. Maurice’s case comes up at the beginning of the session.”

“It’s only a formality,” said Leo, who was proud of managing a rather large factory at twenty-eight, and affected a practical and positive turn of mind that reduced everything to its net results. “An acquittal is certain.”

The old lawyer closed the young man’s mouth with a categorical “No!” His daughter shivered. The men looked at each other, surprised and anxious.

“How do you mean? Why is it ‘No’?”

“Since he’s not guilty.”

“Since it was Mrs. Frasne who took the money.”

The last remark came from Charles Marcellaz, mentioning the common foe by name.

“The wretch!” added the widow, raising her eyes to the ceiling, and inwardly regretting that Mrs. Frasne’s name had been uttered in Margaret’s presence. She divided women simply into two categories, the virtuous and the wanton, though she did not investigate the origin of the children that she rescued. Unlike so many intellectual and emancipated women of to-day, her horizon was limited, but not her charity or devotion.

“Acquittal is not certain,” resumed the head of the family, “on account of the conditions which my son imposes as to his defence. I have seen him several times in the gaol. His will is unshakable. He will not consent to any defence unless the name of Mrs. Frasne is kept out of it.”

With one accord the manufacturer and the old attorney rebelled against this:

“It’s impossible. He’s mad.”

“It’s treachery.”

“He ought not to be listened to.”

“So much the worse. Leave him to his fate.”

This last cowardly advice came from his cousin Leo. Mr. Roquevillard shut him up with a hurt and angry look, which melted promptly into one of sorrow. The family was in disaccord if one member of it repudiated the joint claims upon it. But in the silence which followed old Uncle Stephen remarked softly:

“Myself, I think Maurice is right.”

Mr. Roquevillard, upon this unexpected interjection, continued his explanations.

“This generosity might be understood by a jury selected from the ranks of the well-to-do. It won’t go down with simple farmers. The main point with them will be the disappearance of the money. It’s a sum the very figure of which will dazzle them. They are more alive to outrages against property than to those against persons. This sum, they will argue, could have been stolen only by _him_ or _her_. If by her, he would say so, and they should acquit him. In case of doubt, they would still acquit him. He doesn’t dare accuse her, therefore he himself is the thief. They have not the same conception of honour as ourselves.”

“Honour, honour!” repeated Leo twice over, the too evident disdain of his uncle at his remarks having irritated him. “It’s important, above all things, to avoid a verdict that will dishonour us, his family. I don’t admit any honour but that, myself, honour as recognised by the law.”

The oldest member of the family stared insolently at the young man from Lyons.

“I beg of you to say no more,” he murmured in a voice that whistled through his scanty row of teeth.

“Why?” objected the manufacturer, who showed no deference for age.

“Why,” said Uncle Stephen, “because you no longer understand the meaning of certain words.”

“Exactly. Words. Big words, when it’s you who are using them,” retorted Leo.

By way of conciliation, Charles Marcellaz contributed a legal explanation:

“Mrs. Frasne is guilty, but her act doesn’t come within the scope of the law. Theft committed by a wife to the injury of her husband doesn’t permit of any action. In accusing Mrs. Frasne, Maurice doesn’t expose her to any risk, and his testimony is strictly in accordance with the truth.”

But Uncle Stephen, whose far-away youth had been a stormy one, pronounced as a court of last resort:

“You don’t accuse a woman under any pretext, if you’ve been her lover. I recognise your son, Francis.”

The widow Roquevillard, since the beginning of the conference, had been chiding her son below her breath for the views he took. He got his downright intelligence from her, but not her kindness. She made up her mind now to support him openly against this old man who preached such a strange morality.

“Would you have us respect such creatures?” she asked.

The head of the family silenced the futile quarrel with a wave of his hand.

“Let me finish,” he said. “When the time comes I’ll ask you for your opinions. Maurice is opposed to any accusation against Mrs. Frasne. It does not concern us now whether he is right or wrong, because his mind is made up, and we can do nothing with him. If the defence goes beyond the limit he has set for it, he will take the blame upon himself, he says, rather than sanction her being named. He would rather charge himself with the crime than that. What will happen in these circumstances? That is the question, and nothing else. The jury, forced to accept the material fact of theft, which cannot be denied, impressed by the loss of so considerable an amount of money, will seek, I foresee it, a guilty party. Disarmed in the case of Mrs. Frasne, they will turn upon my son. Whether they admit extenuating circumstances for him or not, it’s disgrace.”

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Margaret involuntarily.

“The danger is very great. Do you take it all in? Now, I have thought perhaps of a way to avert this danger.”

The girl, whom her father had not instructed as to his plans before the family gathering, took heart again.

“Cost what it may, father, it must be done.”

“Here it is. In cases where abuse of confidence is involved, I have always found that restitution brings acquittal. A jury is especially sensitive to the loss of money. Suppress this loss and it’s scarcely necessary to indicate a guilty party. No prejudice, no sanction: no conviction, no sentence. It’s an association of ideas that’s habitual with a jury.”

His son-in-law summed things up:

“You want to restore to Mr. Frasne the money that his wife took away from him?”

“That’s it.”

“One hundred thousand francs!” cried Leo. “It’s quite a figure.”

And Charles Marcellaz protested at once:

“But it’s as much as to admit that Maurice did wrong. He pays the money back, therefore he was guilty of taking it.”

“No, not that. The man who goes bail for a debtor isn’t that debtor. Through his lawyer Maurice will explain to the jurors that, although he isn’t willing to accuse anybody, he intends to be beyond suspicion himself. If Mr. Frasne is reimbursed, there is no more theft. To leave Mr. Frasne uncovered is, I suspect, to free my son.”

“Good, Francis,” approved Uncle Stephen, shaking his head like a great bald bird.

This mark of esteem decided the widow upon a friendly demonstration.

“I don’t understand all these tricks very well,” she said, “but good repute is worth more than golden girdles, and my heart is with you, Francis.”

Her son was only reassured by the word “heart,” which committed one to nothing. He exchanged a look with young Charles Marcellaz which signified, “These old people treat money with a high hand; as if there were anything else that gives a family importance or a chance to grow.” Feeling that he was supported on this question, Charles inquired softly:

“One hundred thousand francs--can you pay back that much, father?”

“That’s another question,” replied Mr. Roquevillard, a little dryly, beginning to grow a bit weary of these preliminaries. “I shall come to that presently. First the principles, then the means of applying them.”

But of his own accord, being already decided, he reversed this order, by adding:

“If necessary I shall sell La Vigie.”

It was the last sacrifice of all. Margaret knew the heroism of it, and grew quite pale. Charles, divided between respect and self-interest, admiration and indignation, hesitated, hunted for a way out through this flood of contrary sentiments, and receiving an ironical glance of the eye from Leo, began to argue:

“Sell La Vigie! You haven’t time before December 6th. Or at best you’ll sell for a wretched price. La Vigie is worth one hundred and sixty thousand at the very lowest, without the woods that you bought four years ago in Saint Cassin.”

These objections the lawyer had doubtless put to himself already, for he was prepared with his answer:

“It’s possible,” he said simply. “And if not, then it can be mortgaged.”

“Yes, at five or four and one-half per cent. Five probably, if you want it immediately. Business men won’t fail to take advantage of you. And the land yields scarcely three, whereas you only need one frost or hail-storm to ruin your crops. You have too much experience, father, not to know that mortgaging is an incurable disease for land, a fatal one. Country property is a great risk nowadays for one who does not live off the land, or hasn’t a good income to insure him against loss from bad seasons or competition. It’s compromising the future irrevocably. And La Vigie is the family’s patrimony, sacred to the future, and ought not to be touched.”

Mr. Roquevillard let Charles finish his speech, though he had grown impatient under it.

“No one loves and understands the land better than I,” he replied, raising his tone a little. “No one has listened to its counsels, put his ear to its breast when it has been sick, more truly than I have. And yet I am the one to be reproached with having forgotten it. Let me tell you then, if you don’t know it already, that in the human plan of things there is a divine order that must be respected. Over and above material legacies I place, for my part, the heritage of morality. It is not the patrimony that makes a family, but the long line of generations that have created and maintained the patrimony. If a family is dispossessed, it can found a new estate elsewhere. If it has lost its traditions, its faith, its joint responsibility, its honour, if it is reduced to an assemblage of individuals ruled by contrary interests and following their own destinies rather than the family’s, then it is a body emptied of its soul, a corpse that reeks of death, and the finest estates can never make it live again. A piece of land can be regained by purchase; the virtue of a race is not for sale. That is why the loss of La Vigie affects me less than the danger to my son and my name. But because La Vigie has been from one century to another the portion of the Roquevillards I was not willing to interrupt so continuous a transmission without warning, and consulting all of you. I have given you my own opinion first: I was wrong. Give me yours now as I call your names, honestly. I don’t say I shall follow your advice if it is opposed to mine. I am the head of the family and must take the responsibility myself. But a decision that with one blow shatters the work of so many generations is a grave one, and it will be a comfort to me to have the approval of our family council.”

By the silence that followed these words he realised that the group around him had seized the importance of the occasion. He glanced toward the map of La Vigie on the wall, with its notations of the new lands successively added to it, and the dates of the contracts under which they had been made. So often during the preparation of his cases his gaze had dwelt on this map, not to trace its lines and figures, but to summon up the vision of its woods and fields and vines, with their tillage and vintages. A bit of the land, with all its agricultural work and the movement of the seasons over it, lived in its narrow frame, the mere black lines of which were potent over his imagination.

He turned his eyes from it, and through the windows, under the lowering sky, could see the castle of the old dukes, built gradually through the various epochs of its history, half dismantled now, but still imposing in its guerdon of the past. Better than any documents or archives, than any manuals or chronologies, it made one stop and think, because of the very fact that it remained standing like a witness in the flesh. Of itself it called up memories of ancient Savoy, and the times of his ancestors and rude wars, while the pointed arches of the Sainte-Chapelle symbolised the pious impulses of their hearts. What is left of the dead, with all their acts and sentiments, if these material signs, through which they realise and recall themselves, do not exist for us? Did La Vigie, its lands cleared, subdued, added to and restored, count for nothing in the destiny of the Roquevillards? And when it should be abandoned, would not its mainstay, the visible scene of its continuity, be lacking to his race? In landed properties one generation hands on the spade to another as ancient couriers used to pass the torch. And here was the last chief letting it fall.

But the lawyer turned his head away, spurning all hesitation. The patrimony was not all the family any more than prayer was the church, or courage a prison cell. Hubert and Felicie carried far away from their native soil, to the Soudan or to China, the vital energy that tradition had handed down to them. Maurice, restored again to his normal life, would root out his fault with toil. And as for Margaret, the flame of a devoted life burned steadily in her.

He addressed himself first to his daughter, as the youngest of the company, thinking to hear his thoughts echoed in her reply.

“You, Margaret,” he said, “speak first.”

“I, father? Everything that you do will be all right. Save Maurice, I implore you. If you think the sale of La Vigie is necessary, don’t hesitate. We don’t need a fortune. In any case, take my share. Don’t worry about me. I need very little to live on, and I’ll pull through somehow.”

“I knew it,” said Mr. Roquevillard approvingly.

He caressed Margaret’s hand softly, while he questioned his nephew next.

“And you, Leo. Remember your father,” he added, mistrusting him a little.

The young man assumed the important manner of one who has arrived, a man who has accomplished things, but who will give you his receipt for success just the same. He would tell these ignorant old men something about the ways of modern life, and the new conditions that make it so swift and real and egotistical.

“My dear uncle,” he began, “you are one of those old-timers who start up crusades everywhere and tilt at windmills. You don’t accomplish anything by ruining yourself. You ought to look at things in a more practical light. This very moment Maurice is blackmailing you with his ‘honour.’ Mrs. Frasne’s honour isn’t worth one hundred thousand francs. My nice cousin is blustering in his prison. When he comes into court he’ll sing smaller. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve often read the accounts of criminal trials in the newspapers, as every one does now. Even the most obstinate prisoners will turn on their victim or accomplices at the last moment to save themselves. The fear of an unfavourable verdict is the beginning of wisdom for them. Maurice is an intelligent boy, with everything to live for: he’ll understand. If by any chance he doesn’t, well, so much the worse for him, after all. It’s a sad thing to say before you, uncle, and I’m very sorry for it; but he would have it so, and I know you like frankness. His danger is all his own. A family isn’t jointly and severally responsible for the faults of one member. That’s one of those absurd theories that have been definitely relegated to the past in our day. ‘Each one for himself,’ is the new motto. No account’s taken of another’s debts, whether it’s your father or your brother or your son. If I earn money, it’s mine, and my good and bad acts are mine. There’s plenty of work looking out for your own happiness, without adding the terrible weight of twenty generations to it. Advance Maurice’s share to him if you insist on it, but hold back his brothers’ and sisters’, and something for yourself in your old age. As for La Vigie, I’d sell it as a matter of fact, if you can get a good price for it, not to buy the jury’s sympathy with it, but because land’s no good any more except to some peasant who worries it like a rat. Industry, machines--that’s the future, for individuals and for society, too.”

Old Uncle Stephen, upon this harangue, let out a little sharp laugh, and mumbled:

“He talks well. A little long-winded, but he talks well.”

The widow, for her part, much agitated, put her hands together and implored the Lord’s assistance.

“You have finished?” asked Mr. Roquevillard, not without a hint of rudeness.

“I’m through.”

“If I’ve understood you correctly then, you’d be perfectly willing to throw Maurice overboard.”

“Excuse me, uncle; he jumps overboard. If he were reasonable, he could easily enough get out of the law’s clutches, safe and sound. But he doesn’t want to be reasonable. I’m always for being reasonable, myself.”

The head of the family turned toward his son-in-law.

“And you, Charles, are you also reasonable?”

Marcellaz hesitated before beginning his reply. He had always chafed a little at his father-in-law’s superiority; the superiority of his wife’s family over his own struck him on each comparison, and irritated him, especially since he had gone back again to the country of his origin. He was an industrious and economical young lawyer, building up his children’s future obstinately, and appeared jealous and watchful of his painfully acquired and moderate fortune. Business had absorbed him, making him limited and hard. But he loved Germaine, and if he mistrusted agitations and did not like to have his sensibilities stirred up, it was not because he did not have any. He hesitated, deploring the past, and hating this situation that did not solve itself.

“Why does Maurice prefer Mrs. Frasne to us even in gaol?” he began. “It’s absurd, since she doesn’t run any risk of punishment. He betrays his family for a false point of honour. One hundred thousand francs! To raise all that money, isn’t it beyond your power? You mustn’t attempt the impossible.”

“But suppose you must attempt the impossible to save him?” put in Margaret.

“Well, then,” concluded Mr. Roquevillard, who wanted a positive answer, “you also, Charles, advise me to desert my son?”

Marcellaz lowered his head, to avoid the ironical eyes of young Leo, and murmured shamefacedly:

“No, just the same.”

When he raised his head again he was surprised by the look in his father-in-law’s eyes. Their habitually masterful expression was veiled and tender, with an unaccustomed sweetness, as of one surprised by the flow of a stream whose humble source he has discovered beneath some bit of verdure.

“Your turn, Thérèse,” he said next.

The widow, since her son’s speech, had not heard a single word of what was said, and the question did not have to be repeated. She was governed by a sure instinct, and did not confuse herself with principles, which she applied better than she could define them. Like most women, she promptly substituted personalities for questions of theory, a method which at least had the merit of keeping abstract solutions at safe distance and scattering metaphysical mists. Throughout the debate she had retained but one word, but that one was a good one. She couldn’t speak to more than one person at a time, and so she laid hold on Leo, regardless of the other members of the assembly.

“Each one for himself, did you say?” she began. “If your uncle here had practised that fine maxim, my boy, you would not this moment be at the head of a factory that brings you in hundreds and hundreds of francs.”

“Mother, you’re laughing at me,” interrupted Leo, his self-esteem wounded by this sally.

But the good lady was off, and nothing could stop her.

“No, no, you know what I mean to say. I’ve already told you the story, and if you’ve forgotten it I’ll refresh your memory. Fifteen years ago your father invested all his savings in the factory he was starting, and then the orders stopped coming in and there came a day when he had to suspend payments. The industry was a new one in the district, and no one had any confidence in it. He went to see your Uncle Francis, here, and explained his danger to him. Francis lent him at once without interest the twenty thousand francs he needed, and needed so badly that we were threatened with being closed out. That’s how we were saved, my boy. From that evil hour I’ve had a great horror of poverty. May God forgive me, if that’s what has made you selfish and mistrustful.”

“Well, well, I didn’t remember,” admitted Leo, with an ill grace.

His mother was filled full of her subject, and was not to be wheedled by this concession, though ordinarily she always yielded to her son’s arguments after a little fussing. When two people live much with each other they don’t pay much attention to themselves, and are quite surprised sometimes, when some grave matter supplies occasion, to find themselves at variance. Nowadays it is a difference which is more and more frequent between one generation and the next, on account of the loosening of family ties and the rapid transformation of ideas.

The gist of her next remarks was ostensibly intended for her brother-in-law.