“But where will you go?  What will you do?”

“Oh, something.  Consider that in four years I have been lawyer, politician, swordsman, and buffoon — especially the latter.  There is always a place in the world for Scaramouche.  Besides, do you know that unlike Scaramouche I have been oddly provident?  I am the owner of a little farm in Saxony.  I think that agriculture might suit me.  It is a meditative occupation; and when all is said, I am not a man of action.  I haven’t the qualities for the part.”

She looked up into his face, and there was a wistful smile in her deep blue eyes.

“Is there any part for which you have not the qualities, I wonder?”

“Do you really?  Yet you cannot say that I have made a success of any of those which I have played.  I have always ended by running away.  I am running away now from a thriving fencing-academy, which is likely to become the property of Le Duc.  That comes of having gone into politics, from which I am also running away.  It is the one thing in which I really excel.  That, too, is an attribute of Scaramouche.”

“Why will you always be deriding yourself?” she wondered.

“Because I recognize myself for part of this mad world, I suppose.  You wouldn’t have me take it seriously?  I should lose my reason utterly if I did; especially since discovering my parents.”

“Don’t, Andre!” she begged him.  “You are insincere, you know.”

“Of course I am.  Do you expect sincerity in man when hypocrisy is the very keynote of human nature?  We are nurtured on it; we are schooled in it, we live by it; and we rarely realize it.  You have seen it rampant and out of hand in France during the past four years — cant and hypocrisy on the lips of the revolutionaries, cant and hypocrisy on the lips of the upholders of the old regime; a riot of hypocrisy out of which in the end is begotten chaos.  And I who criticize it all on this beautiful God-given morning am the rankest and most contemptible hypocrite of all.  It was this - the realization of this truth kept me awake all night.  For two years I have persecuted by every means in my power...  M. de La Tour d’Azyr.”

He paused before uttering the name, paused as if hesitating how to speak of him.

“And in those two years I have deceived myself as to the motive that was spurring me.  He spoke of me last night as the evil genius of his life, and himself he recognized the justice of this.  It may be that he was right, and because of that it is probable that even had he not killed Philippe de Vilmorin, things would still have been the same.  Indeed, to-day I know that they must have been.  That is why I call myself a hypocrite, a poor, self-duping hypocrite.”

“But why, Andre?”

He stood still and looked at her.  “Because he sought you, Aline.  Because in that alone he must have found me ranged against him, utterly intransigeant.  Because of that I must have strained every nerve to bring him down — so as to save you from becoming the prey of your own ambition.