“He has shamed himself!” I cried.  I cared not whether I had a right to say it.  “He has forgotten his honour.”

“Aye.  But I have remembered mine.”

“Monsieur!  Monsieur cannot mean to let him go scot-free?”

But his eyes told me that he did mean it.

“Then,” I said in more and more amazement, “Monsieur forgives him?”

His face set sternly.

“No,” he answered.  “No, Felix.  He has placed himself beyond my forgiveness.”

“Then we will go there alone, we two, and kill him!  Kill the three!”

He laughed.  But not a man in France felt less mirthful.

“You would have me kill my son?”

“He would have killed you.”

“That makes no difference.”

I looked at him, groping after the thoughts that swayed him, and catching at them dimly.  I knew them for the principles of a proud and honour-ruled man, but there was no room for them in my angry heart.

“Monsieur,” I cried, “will you let three villains go unpunished for the sake of one?” It was what I had meant to do, awhile back, but the case was changed now.

“Of two:  Gervais de Grammont is also of my blood.”

“Monsieur would spare him as well—­him, the ringleader!”

“He is my cousin.”

“He forgets it.”

“But I do not.”

“Monsieur, will you have no vengeance?”

Monsieur looked at me.

“When you are a man, Felix Broux, you will know that there are other things in this world besides vengeance.  You will know that some injuries cannot be avenged.  You will know that a gentleman cannot use the same weapons that blackguards use to him.”

“Ah, Monsieur!” I cried.  “Monsieur is indeed a nobleman!” But I was furious with him for it.

He turned abruptly and paced down the room.  The dog, which had been standing at his side, stayed still, looking from him to me with puzzled, troubled eyes.  He knew quite well something was wrong, and vented his feelings in a long, dismal whine.  Monsieur spoke to him; Roland bounded up to him and licked his hand.  They walked up and down together, comforting each other.

“At least,” I cried in desperation, “Monsieur has the spy.”

He laughed.  Only a man in utter despair could have laughed then as he did.

“Even the spy to wreak vengeance on consoles you somewhat, Felix?  But does it seem to you fair that a tool should be punished when the leaders go free?”

“No,” said I; “but it is the common way.”

“That is a true word,” he said, turning away again.

I waited till he faced me once more.

“Monsieur will not suffer the spy to go free?”

“No, Felix.  He shall be punished lest he betray again.”

He passed me in his dreary walk.  Half a dozen times he passed by me, a broken-hearted man, striving to collect his courage to take up his life once more.  But I thought he would never get over the blow.  A husband may forget his wife’s treachery, and a mother will forgive her child’s, but a father can neither forget nor forgive the crime of the son who bears his name.