and for us, who unfortunately bear the same name, that they should have come to this tragic end—­better to have fallen weapon in hand, than to have suffered an infamous death upon the gallows.  Let us bow to what God has ordained for them.  It is a stern judgment; seven men in the pride of youth and strength summoned in a single night to their terrible reckoning! . . .  We must pray for them, Bernard, and by dint of good works try to make good the evil they have done, and remove the stains they have left on our escutcheon.”

These concluding words summed up the chevalier’s whole character.  He was pious, just, and full of charity; but, with him, as with most nobles, the precepts of Christian humility were wont to fall before the pride of rank.  He would gladly have had a poor man at his table, and on Good Friday, indeed, he used to wash the feet of twelve beggars; but he was none the less attached to all the prejudices of our caste.  In trampling under foot the dignity of man, my cousins, he considered, had, as noblemen, been much more culpable than they would have been as plebeians.  On the latter hypothesis, according to him, their crimes would not have been half so grave.  For a long time I shared the conviction myself; it was in my blood, if I may use the expression.  I lost it only in the stern lessons of my destiny.

He then confirmed what his daughter had told me.  From my birth he had earnestly desired to undertake my education.  But his brother Tristan had always stubbornly opposed this desire.  There the chevalier’s brow darkened.

“You do not know,” he said, “how baneful have been the consequences of that simple wish of mine—­baneful for me, and for you too.  But that must remain wrapped in mystery—­a hideous mystery, the blood of the Atridae. . . .”

He took my hand, and added, in a broken voice: 

“Bernard, we are both of us victims of a vicious family.  This is not the moment to pile up charges against those who in this very hour are standing before the terrible tribunal of God; but they have done me an irreparable wrong—­they have broken my heart.  The wrong they have done you shall be repaired—­I swear it by the memory of your mother.  They have deprived you of education; they have made you a partner in their brigandage; yet your soul has remained great and pure as was the soul of the angel who gave you birth.  You will correct the mistakes which others made in your childhood; you will receive an education suitable to your rank.  And then, Bernard, you will restore the honour of your family.  You will, won’t you?  Promise me this, Bernard.  It is the one thing I long for.  I will throw myself at your knees if so I may win your confidence; and I shall win it, for Providence has destined you to be my son.  Ah, once it was my dream that you should be more completely mine.  If, when I made my second petition, they had granted you to my loving care, you would have been brought up with my daughter and you would certainly have become her husband.  But God would not have it so.  You have now to begin your education, whereas hers is almost finished.  She is of an age to marry; and, besides, her choice is already made.  She loves M. de la Marche; in fact, their marriage is soon to take place.  Probably she had told you.”