“He is your father, Andre! Gervais, he
is your son — our son! The letter there...
on the table... O my God!” And she slipped
nervelessly to the ground, and crouched there sobbing
at the feet of M. de La Tour d’Azyr.
SAFE-CONDUCT
Across the body of that convulsively sobbing woman,
the mother of one and the mistress of the other, the
eyes of those mortal enemies met, invested with a
startled, appalled interest that admitted of no words.
Beyond the table, as if turned to stone by this culminating
horror of revelation, stood Aline.
M. de La Tour d’Azyr was the first to stir.
Into his bewildered mind came the memory of something
that Mme. de Plougastel had said of a letter
that was on the table. He came forward, unhindered.
The announcement made, Mme. de Plougastel no longer
feared the sequel, and so she let him go. He
walked unsteadily past this new-found son of his,
and took up the sheet that lay beside the candlebranch.
A long moment he stood reading it, none heeding him.
Aline’s eyes were all on Andre-Louis, full of
wonder and commiseration, whilst Andre-Louis was staring
down, in stupefied fascination, at his mother.
M. de La Tour d’Azyr read the letter slowly
through. Then very quietly he replaced it.
His next concern, being the product of an artificial
age sternly schooled in the suppression of emotion,
was to compose himself. Then he stepped back
to Mme. de Plougastel’s side and stooped
to raise her.
“Therese,” he said.
Obeying, by instinct, the implied command, she made
an effort to rise and to control herself in her turn.
The Marquis half conducted, half carried her to the
armchair by the table.
Andre-Louis looked on. Still numbed and bewildered,
he made no attempt to assist. He saw as in a
dream the Marquis bending over Mme. de Plougastel.
As in a dream he heard him ask:
“How long have you known this, Therese?”
“I... I have always known it... always.
I confided him to Kercadiou. I saw him once
as a child... Oh, but what of that?”
“Why was I never told? Why did you deceive
me? Why did you tell me that this child had
died a few days after birth? Why, Therese?
Why?”
“I was afraid. I... I thought it
better so — that nobody, nobody, not even you,
should know. And nobody has known save Quintin
until last night, when to induce him to come here
and save me he was forced to tell him.”
“But I, Therese?” the Marquis insisted.
“It was my right to know.”
“Your right? What could you have done?
Acknowledge him? And then? Ha!”
It was a queer, desperate note of laughter.
“There was Plougastel; there was my family.
And there was you... you, yourself, who had ceased
to care, in whom the fear of discovery had stifled
love. Why should I have told you, then?
Why? I should not have told you now had there
been any other way to... to save you both. Once
before I suffered just such dreadful apprehensions
when you and he fought in the Bois. I was on
my way to prevent it when you met me. I would
have divulged the truth, as a last resource, to avert
that horror. But mercifully God spared me the
necessity then.”
