“And a promising beginning we have made in Brittany, as Heaven hears me!” cried Philippe.

“Pooh!  That is nothing.  Naturally the nobles will not yield without a struggle.  It is a futile and ridiculous struggle — but then... it is human nature, I suppose, to be futile and ridiculous.”

M. de Vilmorin became witheringly sarcastic.  “Probably you will also qualify the shooting of Mabey as futile and ridiculous.  I should even be prepared to hear you argue in defence of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr that his gamekeeper was merciful in shooting Mabey, since the alternative would have been a life-sentence to the galleys.”

Andre-Louis drank the remainder of his chocolate; set down his cup, and pushed back his chair, his breakfast done.

“I confess that I have not your big charity, my dear Philippe.  I am touched by Mabey’s fate.  But, having conquered the shock of this news to my emotions, I do not forget that, after all, Mabey was thieving when he met his death.”

M. de Vilmorin heaved himself up in his indignation.

“That is the point of view to be expected in one who is the assistant fiscal intendant of a nobleman, and the delegate of a nobleman to the States of Brittany.”

“Philippe, is that just?  You are angry with me!” he cried, in real solicitude.

“I am hurt,” Vilmorin admitted.  “I am deeply hurt by your attitude.  And I am not alone in resenting your reactionary tendencies.  Do you know that the Literary Chamber is seriously considering your expulsion?”

Andre-Louis shrugged.  “That neither surprises nor troubles me.”

M. de Vilmorin swept on, passionately:  “Sometimes I think that you have no heart.  With you it is always the law, never equity.  It occurs to me, Andre, that I was mistaken in coming to you.  You are not likely to be of assistance to me in my interview with M. de Kercadiou.”  He took up his hat, clearly with the intention of departing.

Andre-Louis sprang up and caught him by the arm.

“I vow,” said he, “that this is the last time ever I shall consent to talk law or politics with you, Philippe.  I love you too well to quarrel with you over other men’s affairs.”

“But I make them my own,” Philippe insisted vehemently.

“Of course you do, and I love you for it.  It is right that you should.  You are to be a priest; and everybody’s business is a priest’s business.  Whereas I am a lawyer — the fiscal intendant of a nobleman, as you say — and a lawyer’s business is the business of his client.  That is the difference between us.  Nevertheless, you are not going to shake me off.”

“But I tell you frankly, now that I come to think of it, that I should prefer you did not see M. de Kercadiou with me.  Your duty to your client cannot be a help to me.”

His wrath had passed; but his determination remained firm, based upon the reason he gave.