Chapter IX: Part III: I (3)

He took out a five-franc piece, wanting to help her in her misfortunes, but she would not accept it.

“Take it, I want you to,” he said.

“Master Francis,” she answered, “La Vigie doesn’t belong to you any more, if what they say is true.”

The lawyer’s brow clouded over.

“No, La Vigie isn’t mine any more. Take the money just the same. It will bring me luck.”

She saw that she was humiliating him by her refusal, and held out her hand. Then she went on down the hillside, bending her knees at each step to keep from slipping. He watched her figure growing smaller in the distance, until it was no more than a dark spot against the background of the valley. Her going left him alone again, but changed. This poor old woman here had returned to him a hundredfold the succour and strength that he had given her a year ago at the vintage time.

While they had been talking together evening had come on. All nature, motionless and as if congealed beneath the snow, submitted to the solemn and mysterious calm that precedes the flight of day. The outlines of the mountains melted more and more into the borders of the pale sky. Not a sound broke the silence, more impressive in its aloof stillness than the roaring of a storm.

At the foot of the hill the little stream slipped slyly by under a thin bed of ice, where it had broken and reformed again. The earth, all of an even hue, seemed shrouded in its whiteness, like a jewel wrapped in cotton-wool.

Mr. Roquevillard fixed his gaze upon La Vigie, that closed and deserted relic of the race that had possessed it. The prospect held and fascinated him. Mother Fauchois had reawakened the instincts of battle in him, had turned away despair from him. The head of the family thrust sorrow from him, to think of the child that was now his charge in life. He must seek some means of saving Maurice. But his yearning gaze fell back blankly before this cruelly cold, clear emptiness of space that was all around him: it gave back no message to him, no word such as the spring or summer or even the autumn of life’s seasons might have uttered to him. How should he defend his son with no weapons but memories of the past? What help could he expect from this deserted soil, this race that had gone down into the tomb? “One doesn’t argue through the dead,” Mr. Battard had said to him on learning of Maurice’s determination.

The sun, touching the line of the mountain ridge, shed its last glory. On the mountain slopes the piledup snow seemed to kindle beneath its fire and grow crimson, as if awakened from its lethargy. Last of all, the still horizon line stirred beneath the light. Silent and immaculate it yielded to the touch of life and gave it forth. The trembling earth separated itself distinctly from the sky, whose pale blue spread into a thousand tints under its dominant gold. Nearer by, the rime that covered the trees and shrubs reflected the rays of the setting sun like crystals that gather up in their tiny space the myriad lights of a chandelier.

Mr. Roquevillard, his eye fixed on La Vigie, beheld this phenomenon of the resurrection. For a few minutes nature lived again beneath the caresses of the evening. Once more the blood coursed through its marble face. Along the vines, on the summit of the hill, where the almost horizontal beams of the sun struck more directly, the dispossessed proprietor could make out now, instead of a piece of land uniform in its whiteness, the distinguishing marks of the different places he had put under cultivation; and behold, here and there were trees, tall poplars standing calm and proud like palms, lindens with tapering branches, thin birches, massive chestnuts, delicate fruit trees puny of limb yet so expert in bearing their branches; trees, but just now nameless and lost in mist, which seemed to him to surge forth again like living beings.

And he was no longer conscious of being alone there, for he knew names for these phantoms. With swelling breast he summoned up all the successive generations that had cleared these lands, the hands that built this mansion and these farm buildings, this rustic work, that had laid the foundation of this domain, from the first shirt-sleeves of the oldest peasant to the lawyer’s robes and the togas of the senate of Savoy. The high plateau which spread before him was invested like a fortress by the hosts of ancestors that had planted with their wheat and rye and oats and orchards and vines in this corner of the earth traditions of uprightness and honour, examples of courage and nobility. And as the products of these their lands had scattered their good repute abroad, so this tradition lighted up the city down there within the circle of the mountains where the shadows were beginning to fall upon it, and the province which it had served and protected and even in certain moments of its history made illustrious; shed lustre even upon their native land, whose power was made of the continuity and hardihood of such breeds of men as they were. “One doesn’t argue through the dead,” he repeated a second time. “With the dead, no; but with the living, yes. They are there, all of them. Not one but will answer to his name. The earth has opened up to let them pass. I will overleap this valley that lies between us. I am going to join them.”

And he measured the already darkened hollow of the vale, as if these phantoms all were massed there before him.

The shadows were laying hold of nature. Already all the plain belonged to them. They rose. Only the mountains were still defiant, especially the storeyed Nivolet that faced the setting sun and received all its flame, glowing with the purple and violet snow like heated metal.

Stooping toward the foot of the hill, Mr. Roquevillard followed this struggle. And all at once his whole being started. With the darkness the shades were mounting, all the shades. They had left La Vigie, they were coming. Just now he had seen them gathered there in the valley’s depths. They were bringing him their presences, their help and testimony. There were some of them on all the hillsides. It was as if an army were rallying round their chief as he stood there at the foot of the old oak. And when all the army was assembled, he could hear it heralding a victory for him.

“We who have loved and laboured, fought and suffered, strove not for our own selfish ends, not for a personal result achieved or missed by any one of us, but for an end more permanent than that, an end beyond ourselves, encompassing all the family. What we have saved thus for the common fund we have given into your care to be handed on. It is not La Vigie. Land can be gained by the sweat of one’s brow, bought with money. The soul of our race you bear within you. We are confident that you will defend it. What are you saying, in your despair, of solitude and death? Will you render us your account and tell us whence you came? From Death? But the family is the very negation of death. While you live we all live. And when you shall join us in your turn, you will live again, you must live again, in those that have been born of you. See: at this deciding moment, we are all here. Put off your sorrow as we have lifted up the stones from above our graves. For you, do you hear, is reserved the honour of defending and saving the last of the Roquevillards. You will speak in our name. Afterwards, when your tasks are done, you can rejoin us here in the peace of God.”

Mr. Roquevillard put out his hand and supported himself against the oak. The darkness was storming Le Nivolet, its last terrace, with a cross upon it, flaming once more before it should go out. A great calm settled on his soul, and he accepted in good faith this mission laid upon him by the past.

“Maurice, your defender shall be no one but myself.... And I’ll not mention the name of Mrs. Frasne.”

He moved away from the spot where the tree stood, noting the situation as he left the place.

“I’ll rebuild here,” he thought, “I, or my son.”

V

MARGARET’S BETROTHAL

HUBERT’S death had completely upset Maurice, breaking at last the pride that separated him from his family. Margaret, on her way home from bearing the sad news to him in prison, walked through the streets seeing nothing, shut up in her grief. At her own door she asked the servant:

“Has Mr. Roquevillard come in yet?”

She was hastening to her father’s comfort now as she had gone to Maurice’s, with that power of bearing up in moral sorrow which is less exceptional in a woman than in a man, and permitted her to be of comfort instead of breaking down.

“Not yet, Miss Margaret,” was the answer.

She was surprised, and began to be a little anxious.

“Not yet?”

And yet she had stayed a long time at the gaol, and evening was coming on. Mr. Roquevillard had gone out only for a short walk. He expected Mr. Hamel and Mr. Battard at five o’clock, to make the last arrangements with them for to-morrow’s trial. His prolonged absence under such circumstances was strange.

“But there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who asked to see you,” the servant now added.

“To see me?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Who is it?”

“He told me his name, but I don’t remember it. A doctor.”

She was a girl from the country, not yet quite used to her new ways, and unfamiliar with the names and faces of the town’s people.

“You ought not to have let him in, Melanie,” said Margaret reproachfully. “To-day of all days.”

“That’s right, miss, I thought so, too. But he would not go away. He brought a message for you.”

Margaret went into the drawing-room against her will, keeping on her hat and mourning veil as a hint to the importunate visitor to depart. She found herself face to face with Raymond Bercy.

“Miss Roquevillard,” he murmured, as much overcome as she was.

She recoiled from him instinctively, and he espied the movement, and with an entreating voice he tried to make her stay.

“Miss Margaret, forgive me for having come. I learned last night of your sorrow. Then----”

“Mr. Bercy,” she said, coming forward.

This one formal phrase, firmly uttered, kept him at a distance, seemed to deny him the right to plead. Like her father, she deprecated pity. The man who had been betrothed to her bent his head, disconcerted, and kept silent.

“Why did you insist upon seeing me, sir, to-day?” she said again more gently.

He raised his eyes to her, with an imploring and humble look.

“Because to-morrow it would have been too late,” he sighed.

“Too late? To-morrow? You’ve something to tell me? Is it about Maurice?”

She forgot herself, in an instant, never dreaming that the matter could concern her. Had not all ties between herself and Raymond Bercy been broken off for more than a year? Were they not broken that day when he had not hesitated, in his mother’s house, to break his engagement to her and save the honour of his name? The young man had made no attempt to recapture her affection or her promise to him. Developments had broken on them like a tempest: the accusation by Mr. Frasne, Mrs. Roquevillard’s death, Maurice’s sentence for contempt, the shame and ruin of the family that resulted from it, and, last cruelty of all, the loss of the firstborn son, their future hope and stay. It was more than enough to justify one’s giving up, keeping away from people, forgetting. Was it not the privilege of unhappiness to hide itself? She had enjoyed her tears and her affliction by herself. She had jealously extracted the very essence of her grief, not sharing it with any one. By what right did this man come here again to impose his useless presence and his futile sympathy upon her? But no doubt something else had determined him upon this measure. Perhaps he knew something that would be of value in the defence of her accused brother. On such a pretext, and on this only, she could excuse him for having forced the guards and introduced himself into the house.

He made, no haste to explain himself. He was visibly under the dominion of some great inner trouble.

“Tell me your business, please,” she said.

“It’s nothing to do with Maurice,” he replied blankly.

“What is it then?”

She made a step toward him, and threw back the veil, which had embarrassed her movements and half concealed her. Coming to him thus, straight and rigid, she seemed to him more distant still. Her face, between the black of her dress and her bonnet, stood out so pale, with bruised eyes and lips like a single red line, that he felt her far away from him and sorrowful. He feared lest he should not move her, yet he was greedy to bring her the comfort of his passionate tenderness. He kept back his tears, and summoning all his courage, began to speak, stammering at first, then going on in a voice which little by little grew more firm:

“Miss Roquevillard, listen to me. You must listen. Then you can understand and forgive me. I must speak to you, and speak to-day. I respect your grief. I feel it with you. I have suffered, too, myself, ever since the day.... And my suffering has made me understand others better. I loved you. Oh, don’t stop me! Let me finish. Yes, I loved you. I could not see any future for myself except with you. But I encountered so much opposition at home, so many obstacles, on account--on account of your brother. My mother, who is so good at heart, gives in to every prejudice. My father was set on my career. He is a man of science only. He lives in his office, or rather with his sick people. He’s not the ruler of his house. And I--oh, no, I don’t want to go on accusing other people to excuse my fault. I’ve been a coward, an abominable coward. But I have been well punished for it. I haven’t stood up for you--I haven’t known how to defend you.”

She had attempted at several points to interrupt him with a gesture. Erect again and unconsciously disdainful, she looked him in the face. In her action she showed the haughty air that came naturally to the Roquevillards and had won them so many enemies. But it was mitigated by the veiled melancholy in her eyes, and the mystic expression that came to her from her mother.

“I have not asked you to defend me,” she replied, simply.

“That’s true, Margaret....”

He gave up formality in his emotion, speaking to her as he had used to do in the time when they had been betrothed.

“I even wanted you to despise me,” he added.

“I don’t despise any one, sir.”

“You wounded me so, just in looking at me, that day when you gave me back my promise. You have been so hard....”

“I, hard?”

She pronounced the two words almost in a whisper, deeming all reply useless, inwardly revolted by such injustice.

“Yes,” he replied. “I never understood before that it was right to be proud in misfortune. And I cursed you, but my heart was broken. And I accused you, instead of avowing the wretchedness of my doubts and my mean caring for what people thought. I have changed greatly, I swear to you. And now I admire you, I revere you, adore you. Yes. Don’t say anything. Let me finish. I have tried to forget you. My parents would have had me marry some one else, to have me settle down, as they said. I couldn’t. I love only you, and always shall.”

“I beg of you, sir.”

“What little good I can do, you are the cause of. Little by little I shall raise myself to your level. Men like me, all men, hover between good and evil, between devotion and selfishness. They don’t reflect, they are carried away by all the mediocrity of life. But sometimes one impulse is enough to lift them out of themselves. Your love has given me that impulse, Margaret.”

He stopped, waiting for a word of hope. She lowered her eyes, and the veil, which she no longer held back, fell down to her shoulder, throwing a little shadow on one side of her face. He murmured like a prayer:

“Margaret, take back what you’ve said. Consent to be my wife. I love you. For all your sorrow I love you all the more.”

He saw a shudder run all through her.

“It’s impossible. Don’t ask me that,” she replied unhesitatingly.

Dismayed by this refusal, when a remnant of vanity in him still persuaded him that the course he took was generous, he cried out in distress:

“My life’s happiness, and I’m not to ask you for it?”

She moved nearer to him, and her voice took on a new sweetness as she said to him:

“Another wife will give you this happiness. I’m sure of it. I want it for you.”

“There’s no other woman but you in my eyes.”

“No, no, it’s impossible. Don’t torment me.”

“Impossible? Why, Margaret? Why discourage me? You don’t love me? One day perhaps I shall know how to make you love me. You shake your head? Good God, Margaret, will you send me away without a reason?”

She seemed to search for an answer, and hesitated; then found a way round the difficulty. He watched anxiously for what she should say.

“I’m not the same girl I was last year,” she began.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve no dot any more.”

“Is that it? Margaret, I don’t deserve to have you treat me like this. There’s something in you, in your eyes, like a radiant flame of life. When I look at you I feel courage in me, a desire for good, and a disdain for all the petty satisfactions that material things can give. Beside this, this faith that you give me, which will be my strength, what is money?”

“And if to-morrow----”

As she did not go on with the phrase he repeated:

“If to-morrow?”

“If a still greater misfortune awaits us to-morrow, if to-morrow my brother Maurice is declared guilty?”

“I came to-day on account of that danger. I wanted to claim the honour of supporting your father to-morrow at the trial like a son. I had to see you to-day.”

“Ah!” she murmured, thunderstruck.

He could see from the tone of this simple exclamation that all the indifference she had shown him was falling away at last. On her pale face, whose every expression he had followed, he distinguished suddenly sympathy and gratitude, perhaps something further still. Happiness was there--uncertain, clouded, but still there. And its presence stirred his heart.

Margaret fortified him in this hope by holding out her hand to him.

“I thank you, Raymond,” she said, not afraid to call him by his name as she used to do. “I am touched, deeply touched.”

They were not quite the words he had expected from her. He watched her in an anxious ecstasy, entreatingly. As she kept silent, he murmured timidly:

“Why thank me, when I love you? It seems to me that loving you is worth more than---- Margaret, will you really be my wife?” he added, like a sigh.

There were compassion and sorrow in her beautiful pale face as she answered:

“Raymond, I can’t.”

“You can’t? Then--then you are in love with some one else?”

“Ah, my friend!”

“Yes, you are in love with some one else. Some one who has not been a coward like me, who has known how to divine your thoughts, to understand you, to be worthy of you, while I--well, I have lost my happiness by my own fault. It’s just, but it means unhappiness to one who loves you.”

He stopped and gave a heavy sob.

“Raymond,” she said, trembling, “I beg of you. Don’t talk like this.”

“I don’t accuse you. I’m the guilty one. And your happiness is dearer to me than my own.”

“Raymond, listen to me.”

He was beaten, and with sinking heart he let himself fall heavily into an armchair, hiding his head in his hands, heedless of the show of weakness he made with his tears. She took off her hat with a rapid movement, as a sick-nurse puts off unnecessary garments the better to do her work, and taking hold of his hands, she pulled them aside masterfully.

“Look at me, Raymond.”

She gave her commands, not imperiously, after the fashion of her father, but with persuasive sweetness. She was not constrained any more, no longer assumed the defensive, but came to him in all simplicity. Mechanically he submitted to her ascendancy, and obeyed her. The moment he looked at her, indeed, he ceased to weep. The girl appeared as if transfigured. A look of ecstasy lighted up her pallor. Her eyes glowed with an expression more than human, the expression of those who find peace beyond the agitations and passions that are the moving testimony of our life. She bore in her living features the same serenity that one sees on the faces of the dead that are asleep with God. There was no further trace of sorrow on her bloodless cheeks, or in her bruised eyes, only a deep calm, unalterable, almost frightening.

“Margaret, what is it?” he implored in anguish, like one who cries out to a comrade upon the brink of an abyss.

“Raymond, listen to me,” she repeated. “Yes, I love some one else.”

“Ah, I knew it!”

“Another, of whom you cannot be jealous. I shall never marry. I shall never be the wife of any one. I shall take another path. And yet I am so imperfect that just now when you were speaking to me, I was guilty of a feeling of pride. I am proud still. It is a fault of my people. But we have been so tried, we truly have had to grow a little stiff.”

A frail smile outlined itself at the corner of her mouth, then disappeared, as if to leave the purity of her motionless features undisturbed. She went on, while he said nothing, subdued by the mysterious potency that spread around her:

“No, I shall not forget that you have chosen the hour of my greatest distress to come to me.”

He mourned over her like a child. “I love you.”

“I must not love any more, Raymond. I have heard another call than yours. I’m going to tell you a secret that no one knows, not even my father. I don’t hesitate to tell it to you. Keep it for me. When I lost my mother I promised God to take her place in our home that has been so ravaged by misfortune.”

“Haven’t you done that?”

“I’m not through yet.”

“Will marriage prevent your filling that rôle? We shall not leave Chambéry.”

“You can’t give only half of yourself, Raymond. I have renounced my personal happiness. And from the day I renounced it I have felt a great force in me.”

He gave a violent start, in protest.

“But there’s no sense in it, Margaret. You have no right to deny yourself like this. You will live after your father’s gone. Your brother when he’s acquitted to-morrow will lead his own life, apart from you. And you, what will become of you all alone? What’s the use of sacrificing yourself for needless scruples?”

“My father has been smitten to the heart. My brother is always in danger. Don’t take away any of my courage by telling me I shall not be useful to them.”

Raymond gave in and ceased to struggle. He felt warned intuitively of his defeat, from the look in Margaret’s eyes still more than from her words, yet he tried to put off the moment of defeat. With a timid and softened voice he begged her for a delay.

“And if I wait for you, will you marry me?” he said. “If I remain faithful to you until the time when you have fulfilled your task for your family, will you come to me? I love you so much that rather than lose you I shall know how to be patient. It will be cruel and sweet together. Won’t you, Margaret?”

The girl’s eyes clouded a moment at this romantic and heroic proposal. He saw she was more human, and he believed she was yielding to him. He conceived a new hope from it, which her reply dissipated with its first words.

“No, Raymond, I shan’t consent to build my future on your sorrow. It’s impossible. You have not understood me entirely. I have given myself to God. Don’t try to take me back.”

“Ah, Margaret!”

“To give myself to God is to give myself to all those that suffer.”

“I understand now. You want to join some religious order.”

“I don’t know yet. There are very many ways of serving God. Don’t tell any one yet what I’ve told you. You’re crying. Don’t cry, Raymond. God will console you, as he has consoled me.”

“No, not me.”

And between two sobs he asked her:

“What are you going to do?”

“As long as my father lives I shall help him. As long as Maurice needs me I shall stand by him. At my mother’s death-bed I promised that. Afterwards I’ll devote my strength to the unfortunate, to the old, or maybe to children that have lost their parents. Perhaps I’ll keep a school here for little poor children. I don’t know. I can’t tell now. I mustn’t try to hurry up the future. It will come of itself. You see, now you know all my secrets.”

“And I,” he murmured, “what will become of me? You’re thinking of comforting all wretchedness and you forget mine.”

“Raymond!”

“I am more unhappy than the poorest people there are. They at least have had no glimpse of happiness, but I have, and am cast down after having known joy.”

“No, Raymond, you must have no regrets for me. I was not meant for marriage. God has warned me of it, though it’s been a little hard. For you he has another wife in store, no doubt, who will make you happier than I could.”

“You’re like no other woman, Margaret. You’re not the kind one forgets. You’re not the kind one can replace.”

Darkness was coming into the drawing-room with the waning day, and in the shadow, where the outlines of her black dress were dimmed, the girl’s face shone forth like a last remnant of the light, a light which scarcely animated her pale features. It was as if in touching her cheek one should fear to feel, instead of living warmth, the chill of marble in them.

‘Yes,“ she said, ”you will forget me. You must, and besides, I wish it.”

He looked at her in dismay, like a traveller who beholds from afar the summit that he cannot reach.

“You can’t control my memories,” he said.

“Then remember me without bitter thoughts, as if I were a sister that you had lost.”

“No, Margaret, not without bitterness. You lifted up my thoughts, elevated my heart. They will only fall back now.”

She was moved by this speech, and it was with a grave and almost solemn tone that she responded:

“If you loved me, if you truly loved me, you would give me the supreme joy of thinking that my vocation was not to be useless, for you no less than for others. You can’t be cast down forever over my refusal: it doesn’t really touch you. It can neither wound you nor take from you. My memory ought to be sweet to you, and not spoil your life. For I have loved you, Raymond, my friend. I looked forward contentedly to our wedding-day, and content is the confidence of the soul, our security for the future. An unexpected upheaval has separated us. I’ve seen God’s summons in it. If it is not His will that I should bring you happiness, if He has tested you in your turn, let me believe that this very trial will make you strong, make you grow, and ennoble you. If I, imperfect as I am, have served to elevate you, don’t tell me that you are going to slip back. I shall pray so hard for you.”

She was absorbed in her entreaty, and did not notice that he had slowly bent his knee before her, till suddenly she felt the young man’s lips pressed to her hand.

“What are you doing, Raymond? Get up, I beg of you,” she cried.

She saw him there at her feet and was surprised by this new resolution that he revealed to her. His face seemed no longer tortured and sorrowful, only serious and sad. He had succumbed in spite of himself to the stern and peaceful influence of her faith--that faith which is more potent even over others than ourselves.

“I was not worthy of you,” he murmured. “But I loved you so. No man is worthy of you. That is my consolation,” he added, as he rose, paying her this last homage.

She turned her head as if to put away such praise.

“No, dear friend, you mustn’t talk any more to me like this.”

The completion of the sacrifice was attained. They felt its poignancy with an almost physical sensation, and were hushed. An oppressive stillness followed, charged with melancholy. In the midst of it the maid came into the room, which had now grown quite dark. She had some trouble to see where her mistress was, her shadow was so merged in the darkness.

“Miss Margaret,” she said.

“What is it, Melanie?”

“Those gentlemen have come.”

“Oh! Did you show them into the office?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And Mr. Roquevillard has not come in yet?”

“No, miss.”

“Ask them to wait a few minutes. Mr. Roquevillard will be back soon.”

The delay was becoming disquieting, however, to Margaret. Raymond Bercy was conscious of the fact that the girl’s thoughts were far from him.

“Already!” he thought.

Just now, at least, when she had gently put away his love, he had had a place in her thoughts and heart. Even the sorrow that she caused him brought him nearer to her, was dear because it came from her. He looked at her a last time, with despairing eyes, as if to measure the whole extent of his loss, and leave its impress on his memory. And realising that this was the end, he murmured:

“Good-bye, Margaret.”

She held out her hand to him.

“Good-bye, dear friend. Go in peace. In my prayers each day I’ll join your name with my family’s. Do you want me to?”

“I am grateful, Margaret. I had conceived a great hope, and I have shattered it myself.”

“God willed it, and not you. May God guard you,” she answered gravely.

He bent his head and went out. When she found herself alone she leaned her forehead on her hands a moment, then straightened up again. Then she went to her father’s office, and begged Mr. Hamel and Mr. Battard to be patient a few minutes longer. Finally, as anxiety swayed her more and more, and she was even getting ready to go out and search, she heard the key grating in the outer lock. She hurried toward the door.

“Father, it’s you at last,” she cried.

Mr. Roquevillard, who had walked fast, wiped away the perspiration that gathered on his forehead despite the cold.

“Margaret, have those gentlemen come?” he asked.

“Yes. They’re waiting for you.”

“Good. I’ll go and see them.”

In the lighted hall father and daughter found themselves face to face and were surprised at the change each noted in the other. From having left each other morally discouraged and fagged out, they were surprised now, each of them, to find on the other’s face a sort of victorious serenity over fear and sorrow, a spiritual illumination that made them firm and confident. The father had heard the call of the past rising to him from the depths of the eternal generations. The daughter had heard the voice of God.

VI

THE DEFENDER

MR. ROQUEVILLARD burst into his office like a whirlwind, and his two colleagues rose from their discussion immediately and came forward to meet him. They could not conceal their surprise on finding, instead of a man struck down by despair over the death of his oldest son, the Roquevillard of other times, the man so redoubtable at the bar, to whom one went with difficult and stirring cases, on whose clear judgment and firm conclusions one could always depend. Here again was the man whose dominating character one chafed under sometimes as one quailed before his piercing glance.

“I have made you wait,” he said easily, dispensing with excuses.

In his presence, Mr. Hamel, with his crown of white hair, his delicate features, and the slightly affected and distinguished air that composed his venerable whole, and Mr. Battard, with his spreading beard, his air of assuming everywhere the first rank, seemed, nevertheless, both to recognise their leader; one with good will, the other grudgingly. All assumptions of superiority fell away before these other and more incontestable tokens.

“My good friend,” murmured the elder man, his hand stretched out.

“My dear colleague,” was the formula of the younger.

They conveyed their condolences to him, one cordially and with emotion, the other in trite phrases.

“Yes,” replied their host, stopping them with a motion of his hand, “I have only one son left. That one I am going to save. I must save him; and here’s the plan I have decided on.”

This last consultation had been called by the three lawyers to check up some definite plan of defence together, and lo, the opinion of a single one was prevailing in advance, without other consultation.

“Ah!” exclaimed the president, subdued by so much confidence and firmness.

“Decided?” repeated Mr. Battard with an air of doubt, divided between respect for his friend’s mourning and a sense of his own importance.

Mr. Roquevillard disclosed his idea promptly, in few words; he was very quiet, and his voice had grown young again.

“You two will assist me, both of you. But I shall make the argument myself,” he said.

“You!”

“You!”

Astonishment and irritation were reflected in the two exclamations. Mr. Hamel looked at his old companion in arms with his colourless eyes, the flame of life now no more than a trembling light in them, though it was still so pure; while the jury lawyer, unpleasantly affected by his dismissal from a case that would have given him a sensational chance for resounding argument, forgot the circumstances of the trial, and the misfortunes of the temporarily beaten family, and could think only of the opportunity for personal success that was ruthlessly snatched from him.

“Yes, I,” said Mr. Roquevillard. “I shall reclaim my son so energetically that they’ll give him back to me. They can’t refuse to give a father back his son.”

Having thus dictated his orders for the combat, he exerted himself next to bring round his allies to his way of thinking, for he could, if he liked, modify his imperious manner, and was not without skill in the art of leading men. He was certain of the assistance of the president, and so he turned his attention specially to Mr. Battard, who might escape him.

“You will be there, both of you, please. I count on you. If I ask to take your place, Battard, it isn’t because I rank my skill above yours. But there are certain things which it is my sad privilege alone to explain to the jury.”

“What things?”

“That’s my secret. You’ll hear it all to-morrow. I believe I can convince the jury of my son’s innocence without mentioning the name of Mrs. Frasne.”

“By making reparation for the injury?”

“No, by direct argument.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’ll see to-morrow. However, if you detect any weakening in my voice or argument, if my speech makes you fear a failure, you must tell me. I submit myself entirely to your great experience in jury trials. You have wonderful presence of mind. These judges’ faces are an open book to you. You know the brief as well as I, or better than I do. You were ready with it. You can supplement my efforts. I shall feel myself strong, thus supported. Will you be so kind?”

The dismissed lawyer stroked his beard carefully, and hid his vexation beneath an air of indifference.

“My dear brother, what is the use?” he said. “My cooperation would be useless to you. You don’t really need anybody but yourself. You’re assuming without hesitation the highest and most difficult responsibilities. Permit me to consider my mission terminated.”

The two lawyers, during this interchange, had remained standing. Mr. Hamel, seated by the chimney corner, followed them with somewhat troubled eyes, taking no part in their discussion. Mr. Roquevillard moved a step nearer to his younger colleague, and put his hand affectionately on his shoulder.

“I know that I’m asking a great favour of you, Battard. In claiming the honour of defending my son myself, I want you to understand that it’s my name I count upon defending. I don’t undervalue the help your worth and competence and eloquence would have been to me. But in my place you would do the same as I. Give me this token of your friendship and disinterestedness, as well as your esteem. In that way you’ll show me that you take what I’m saying in good faith, I beg you.”

Mr. Battard kept running his nervous fingers through his fine beard. He was weighing the pros and cons, swayed in turn by fraternal and professional traditions, and by a wounded vanity that ill accommodated itself to second place. He had almost imposed his assistance and services on the defence. He counted, if not on his client’s being saved, at least on a personal triumph for himself: the court-room would be filled to overflowing, chiefly with ladies, who would be keen to hear him, no doubt. Instead of beholding him in his glory, holding forth as a leader, this select public would find him seated like a secretary at Roquevillard’s side, subservient to that dangerous rival who had dealt him so many hard legal knocks in the past. Was it becoming in him to accept so humiliating a position? On the other hand, his presence would not be useless in the trial. The prisoner’s father had probably been seized by some fine sudden zeal, had deluded himself probably with some sudden turn of argument that fascinated him. He dared not tell the secret of it, and perhaps he had conceived it under the influence of a grief that was beginning to affect his moral and intellectual vigour. This fictitious ardour that animated him might fall flat at any moment, without any warning, and be followed by the most lamentable depression. How could this man, crushed as he was by ruinous ill luck, deprived so tragically of his eldest son only last night, bear all the burden of defending his last child from disgrace and conviction? How could he expect or hope to make the vigorous, the violent effort demanded by such an argument, and after so short a preparation? It wasn’t probable that he could. This new decision must be explained as coming from some mystic excitement arising from his sorrow. He, Battard, must hold himself in readiness to take up the case at the last moment. Wisdom counselled it. The interests of the defence, which, with a lawyer, must supersede all others, especially all thoughts of self, showed what conduct he must follow, beyond any question.

But the strange confidence which Roquevillard showed in his face halted these generous fancies.

“No,” explained Mr. Battard, “I can’t oblige you in this way. I’m sorry for it. Either I assume and keep the entire responsibility of the argument, or I retire from the case altogether.”

“It’s my son’s case. It’s right that I should not give up his defence.”

Mr. Hamel rose from his armchair, and intervened opportunely.

“In my capacity as president of the benchers, my dear brother, I hasten to request your assistance. I understand your hesitations. In any other circumstances I should understand your refusal. Mr. Roquevillard may have particular reasons for desiring to make the argument for his son, even though generally the case of defending one’s own is confided to others. But he is tried and tired with the weight of his misfortunes, and he runs the risk of presuming too much upon his force of will. You must be on hand, too. This is the way things look to me, and I insist upon it.”

The moment duty instead of flattery was invoked, authority instead of persuasion, the jury lawyer definitely threw aside his scruples. All his self-assurance came back to him, and he thrust the old man aside almost rudely.

“No, no; it’s impossible. I offered my complete assistance. It must be that or nothing. The plans of the defence have been changed without my being consulted. A line of argument that seems to be decisive is being hidden from me. In these conditions the only thing I can do is to retire from the case, and I retire.”

His hardened face showed only wounded pride. He turned toward Mr. Roquevillard, and added with laborious condescension:

“Do you want the notes to my argument? They will save you some trouble. They are at your service.”

“My dear colleague and friend, think it over further. Don’t leave us in the midst of battle.”

“My resolution is taken,” repeated Mr. Battard.

“Absolutely?”

“Absolutely.”

Throughout this last attempt on Mr. Hamel’s part, Mr. Roquevillard had maintained that same air of pride and tranquillity which just now had so disconcerted his two visitors. The president, more concerned than he over the consequences of this defection, still sought, in spite of his natural antipathy for Mr. Battard, to retain his help.

“I beg you not to deprive us of your aid,” he said.

“I am very sorry, indeed, to disappoint you, believe me,” answered Battard.

“Then,” said the father of the accused, deliberately and without any show of emotion, “I’ll ask you for the papers in the case. I want especially the written report of the police commissioner, the abstract of the deposition, the terms of the arrest for defalcation.”

This disinvestiture completed the offence to Mr. Battard’s pride. He did not know how to yield to entreaties, but by a very human contradiction neither did he resign himself gracefully to having people supersede him. He took leave of his two colleagues with badly disguised irritation. Outside the office, on the steps of the entrance door, his host got hold of his hand almost by force, and shook it, thanking him warmly for having consented to efface himself. But in this friendly demonstration Mr. Battard only saw the last affront of all, and he ran about town injuring the Roquevillards’ cause in the public mind by telling people of the father’s mental aberration, and the probable conviction of the son to-morrow.

Mr. Hamel could not dissemble his sadness at the departure; his doubts and anxiety, which his age made more grievous, appeared plainly. Was it not very imprudent to dismiss wilfully this pastmaster of the assizes? Were they not only too likely to pay for this imprudence? Why make this eleventh-hour change, and stir up trouble and disorganisation in their camp? He formulated these criticisms in a firm and courteous vein, but plainly they were superfluous. He put an end to them, and added on a melancholy note:

“My friend, you came in just now with your face illuminated, as if with some inner inspiration. I knew by looking at you that you would not listen to any one. Where had you been?”

“To La Vigie,” replied Mr. Roquevillard, who had borne the old man’s reproaches respectfully. “The dead spoke to me there. They did not want a charlatan to weigh their reputation against the faults of one descendant.”

“The dead?”

“Yes, my dead. The dead who founded my race, the dead who have maintained it. They shall be the guerdon of our house in to-morrow’s trial. From the first of my name, down to my firstborn Hubert, they have sacrificed so much in the common good; would you have their sacrifices not counted?”

Mr. Hamel reflected, then rose. “I believe in the law of reversion, and I understand. But will the jurors?”

“Indeed they must,” replied his host, with such assurance that the old man’s doubts were stilled by it.

“Something is working out in you,” he said, “and it acts on those you talk with and convinces them. Yes, your defence of your son will be better than that of any other advocate. You have the will and the authority. It will be an honour for me to assist you to-morrow. Good-bye. I will go now and let you work.”

He draped his shabby overcoat over his thin shoulders, and with a suddenly furtive air made for the door, his host following him.

“Margaret!” called Mr. Roquevillard, after having let the president out.

The girl was waiting in the next room for the moment when her father should be ready for her, and appeared at once.

“Here I am.”

“Come in. I want to talk with you.”

He led her into his study and questioned her rapidly.

“You went to see Maurice in prison?”

“Yes, father; we cried together.”

“Cried? Yes, my heart is broken, too. Yet I don’t cry. To-morrow night I shall be free to weep my fill; till then I shall not shed a tear.”

Margaret was a little frightened by the uplifted look that lightened and rejuvenated the dear face, on which she had seen so many disasters leave their mark; but she profited by it promptly to complete her work of reconciliation.

“Father, Maurice longs for his place again in your heart.”

“He has never lost it.”

“I knew it. Do you forgive him?”

“I forgave him a long time ago.”

“Ah!”

“The evening he came back, little girl. Did you doubt your father?”

“Oh, no, father. But why not say so to him?”

“He hasn’t asked me to.”

“He does ask you, though. He wants you to handle his defence on your own lines, without restrictions. He knows you will be careful of his honour.”

“Without restriction? It’s too late now.”

“Why too late?”

“Because I have dismissed Mr. Battard, his advocate.”

“Who will defend him?”

“I.”

“Ah,” said Margaret, throwing herself into his arms, “I had given up hope of that. I have always wanted it.”

And her father, already preoccupied as he was with his new and pressing task, folded her to his breast. “You have always had faith in me, little girl. Go fetch me all the family record books now, even the oldest ones.”

While she was gone there was delivered to him the brief sent back by Mr. Battard, according to his promise. He opened it and turned over the leaves, glancing at the clock as he did so.

“Almost six. Shall I have the time?”

And he reflected sadly on the long task ahead of him with the commonplace books. There were so many that Margaret had to make several journeys to get them all.

“Here they all are,” said the girl. “There are a great many of them, and some quite old ones.”

Five hundred years of labour and good repute were shut up within their leaves. Last of all she handed her father a memorandum book less voluminous than the others.

“In this one,” she explained, blushing a little, “I have summed up myself the principal features of our history, especially the services that have been rendered to our country. It’s a kind of abridgment in less intimate terms.”

“You guessed that we should need it some day?”

“No, father, I wrote it last winter, in revolt against the harsh judgments that were made on us. I read bits of it to mamma, while she was in bed, and she approved of it.”

“And all the time you were preparing a defence for Maurice.”

“With that, father?”

“Yes. Now, let me get to work.”

Then as she was going away he called her back.

“Margaret, I’ve something else to tell you.”

She came back to him quickly. He said nothing at first, but looked her all over with that father’s look that gives love instead of taking it, protects instead of being covetous; he was noticing not only her pallor, but the calmness of her features and the new sweet serenity of their expression.

“I passed Raymond Bercy as I came in, little girl. He was down there by the carriage entrance, standing perfectly still, and I could see that he was much moved and preoccupied. He bowed to me, and made a step toward me, as if to speak to me, but it was too late. I had already passed him.”

Margaret did not seem at all impressed by this news, and answered:

“He had been here, and was just going away, father.”

“I see. And what did he want?”

“He wanted to be with you to-morrow at the trial, and help you.”

“What an idea! In what way could he help?”

“As a son.”

“As a son? Then he had made a proposal to you?”

“Yes, father.”

“And you were not going to tell me about it? God has taken pity on us. Our excess of misfortune has touched Him. Raymond’s conduct is very fine. He hasn’t waited for us to be publicly cleared of all disgrace before he came to us. And what did you say to him?”

“I refused him.”

Mr. Roquevillard gave an astonished movement and drew the girl nearer to him, looking deep into her great clear eyes.

“Refused him? Why? But I can guess: you were thinking of me. You are sacrificing yourself for your father. Your father won’t accept the sacrifice, sweetheart. I have told you often that parents must subordinate their lives to their children’s: that’s the natural order, not the contrary.”

“Father,” she murmured, “I love you so well. You know it. However, you deceive yourself, I assure you.”

“It was not for me you refused him?”

“No, father.”

A pure flame radiated from her eyes over all her colourless face, and he understood his daughter’s soul. Had he not once already had to read these signs? God was taking his children from him one by one. What a fever of renunciation and self-immolation stirred and burned in them! Must there not be in these successive sacrifices enough to furnish the redemption of the culprit, Maurice? He recalled one summer morning, in the glaring light on the docks at Marseilles, when he had watched the steamer sail away for China with Felicie on board. And he pressed Margaret closer to his trembling heart.

“You, too,” he murmured simply.

She clasped her arms around his neck, and whispered to him, quite low, with a kiss:

“Not yet, father.”

“After I am gone?”

“Yes.”

He held her a moment closer against him, as he had done when she was a little girl in the old days and he had put protecting arms about her. He loved the feeling that she was his yet, but hesitated to accept the delay his daughter’s love imposed on her. Facing the glass in his cabinet, he could see the image of the group they formed. With one stroke it showed the changes that had been wrought in him within one year’s time.

“To-morrow,” he reflected, “I shall have saved Maurice, and my task will be finished. It won’t be long after that. I shan’t make old bones.”

Bending over the clear face, he pressed his lips there, as a sign of his acceptance. Then, coming back again to what was uppermost in his mind, he banished tenderness, and made his arrangements for the battle.

“Have dinner at eight,” he ordered. “I’ve almost two hours ahead of me, time to refresh myself on the details of this brief, which I know pretty well already. I’ll go to bed at nine, and get up at three in the morning. From three to nine, before the opening of court, I’ll get my argument in hand.”

“Very well, father. There’s a letter from Lyons from Germaine. Her heart is with us.”

“You can read it to me at dinner,” he said.

“Charles will be here to-morrow on the one-o’clock train. He can’t come sooner.”

“I expected him.”

“I’ll leave you now, father.”

As the door shut upon her, he seized eagerly a photograph of Hubert that stood on the table, and gazed long at the features of his firstborn.