The florid little Lord of Gavrillac stood almost defiantly to receive him.

“I have been over-persuaded to forgive you,” he announced aggressively, seeming thereby to imply that he consented to this merely so as to put an end to tiresome importunities.

Andre-Louis was not misled.  He detected a pretence adopted by the Seigneur so as to enable him to retreat in good order.

“My blessings on the persuaders, whoever they may have been.  You restore me my happiness, monsieur my godfather.”

He took the hand that was proffered and kissed it, yielding to the impulse of the unfailing habit of his boyish days.  It was an act symbolical of his complete submission, reestablishing between himself and his godfather the bond of protected and protector, with all the mutual claims and duties that it carries.  No mere words could more completely have made his peace with this man who loved him.

M. de Kercadiou’s face flushed a deeper pink, his lip trembled, and there was a huskiness in the voice that murmured “My dear boy!” Then he recollected himself, threw back his great head and frowned.  His voice resumed its habitual shrillness.  “You realize, I hope, that you have behaved damnably... damnably, and with the utmost ingratitude?”

“Does not that depend upon the point of view?” quoth Andre-Louis, but his tone was studiously conciliatory.

“It depends upon a fact, and not upon any point of view.  Since I have been persuaded to overlook it, I trust that at least you have some intention of reforming.”

“I...  I will abstain from politics,” said Andre-Louis, that being the utmost he could say with truth.

“That is something, at least.”  His godfather permitted himself to be mollified, now that a concession — or a seeming concession — had been made to his just resentment.

“A chair, monsieur.”

“No, no.  I have come to carry you off to pay a visit with me.  You owe it entirely to Mme. de Plougastel that I consent to receive you again.  I desire that you come with me to thank her.”

“I have my engagements here... " began Andre-Louis, and then broke off.  “No matter!  I will arrange it.  A moment.”  And he was turning away to reenter the academy.

“What are your engagements?  You are not by chance a fencing-instructor?” M. de Kercadiou had observed the leather waistcoat and the foil tucked under Andre-Louis’ arm.

“I am the master of this academy — the academy of the late Bertrand des Amis, the most flourishing school of arms in Paris to-day.”

M. de Kercadiou’s brows went up.

“And you are master of it?”

“Maitre en fait d’Armes.  I succeeded to the academy upon the death of des Amis.”

He left M. Kercadiou to think it over, and went to make his arrangements and effect the necessary changes in his toilet.

“So that is why you have taken to wearing a sword,” said M. de Kercadiou, as they climbed into his waiting carriage.