Benoit, with his back to his master, deliberately winked and grinned at Andre-Louis to encourage him not to be put off by any apparent hostility on the part of his godfather.  That done, the intelligent old fellow discreetly effaced himself.

“What do you want here?” growled M. de Kercadiou.

“No more than to kiss your hand, as Benoit has told you, monsieur my godfather,” said Andre-Louis submissively, bowing his sleek black head.

“You have contrived without kissing it for two years.”

“Do not, monsieur, reproach me with my misfortune.”

The little man stood very stiffly erect, his disproportionately large head thrown back, his pale prominent eyes very stern.

“Did you think to make your outrageous offence any better by vanishing in that heartless manner, by leaving us without knowledge of whether you were alive or dead?”

“At first it was dangerous — dangerous to my life — to disclose my whereabouts.  Then for a time I was in need, almost destitute, and my pride forbade me, after what I had done and the view you must take of it, to appeal to you for help.  Later... "

“Destitute?” The Seigneur interrupted.  For a moment his lip trembled.  Then he steadied himself, and the frown deepened as he surveyed this very changed and elegant godson of his, noted the quiet richness of his apparel, the paste buckles and red heels to his shoes, the sword hilted in mother-o’-pearl and silver, and the carefully dressed hair that he had always seen hanging in wisps about his face.  “At least you do not look destitute now,” he sneered.

“I am not.  I have prospered since.  In that, monsieur, I differ from the ordinary prodigal, who returns only when he needs assistance.  I return solely because I love you, monsieur — to tell you so.  I have come at the very first moment after hearing of your presence here.”  He advanced.  “Monsieur my godfather!” he said, and held out his hand.

But M. de Kercadiou remained unbending, wrapped in his cold dignity and resentment.

“Whatever tribulations you may have suffered or consider that you may have suffered, they are far less than your disgraceful conduct deserved, and I observe that they have nothing abated your impudence.  You think that you have but to come here and say, ’Monsieur my godfather!’ and everything is to be forgiven and forgotten.  That is your error.  You have committed too great a wrong; you have offended against everything by which I hold, and against myself personally, by your betrayal of my trust in you.  You are one of those unspeakable scoundrels who are responsible for this revolution.”

“Alas, monsieur, I see that you share the common delusion.  These unspeakable scoundrels but demanded a constitution, as was promised them from the throne.  They were not to know that the promise was insincere, or that its fulfilment would be baulked by the privileged orders.  The men who have precipitated this revolution, monsieur, are the nobles and the prelates.”