“You dare — and at such a time as this — stand there and tell me such abominable lies!  You dare to say that the nobles have made the revolution, when scores of them, following the example of M. le Duc d’Aiguillon, have flung their privileges, even their title-deeds, into the lap of the people!  Or perhaps you deny it?”

“Oh, no.  Having wantonly set fire to their house, they now try to put it out by throwing water on it; and where they fail they put the entire blame on the flames.”

“I see that you have come here to talk politics.”

“Far from it.  I have come, if possible, to explain myself.  To understand is always to forgive.  That is a great saying of Montaigne’s.  If I could make you understand... "

“You can’t.  You’ll never make me understand how you came to render yourself so odiously notorious in Brittany.”

“Ah, not odiously, monsieur!”

“Certainly, odiously — among those that matter.  It is said even that you were Omnes Omnibus, though that I cannot, will not believe.”

“Yet it is true.”

M. de Kercadiou choked.  “And you confess it?  You dare to confess it?”

“What a man dares to do, he should dare to confess — unless he is a coward.”

“Oh, and to be sure you were very brave, running away each time after you had done the mischief, turning comedian to hide yourself, doing more mischief as a comedian, provoking a riot in Nantes, and then running away again, to become God knows what — something dishonest by the affluent look of you.  My God, man, I tell you that in these past two years I have hoped that you were dead, and you profoundly disappoint me that you are not!” He beat his hands together, and raised his shrill voice to call — “Benoit!” He strode away towards the fireplace, scarlet in the face, shaking with the passion into which he had worked himself.  “Dead, I might have forgiven you, as one who had paid for his evil, and his folly.  Living, I never can forgive you.  You have gone too far.  God alone knows where it will end.

“Benoit, the door.  M. Andre-Louis Moreau to the door!” The tone argued an irrevocable determination.  Pale and self-contained, but with a queer pain at his heart, Andre-Louis heard that dismissal, saw Benoit’s white, scared face and shaking hands half-raised as if he were about to expostulate with his master.  And then another voice, a crisp, boyish voice, cut in.

“Uncle!” it cried, a world of indignation and surprise in its pitch, and then:  “Andre!” And this time a note almost of gladness, certainly of welcome, was blended with the surprise that still remained.

Both turned, half the room between them at the moment, and beheld Aline in one of the long, open windows, arrested there in the act of entering from the garden, Aline in a milk-maid bonnet of the latest mode, though without any of the tricolour embellishments that were so commonly to be seen upon them.