“It seems to me sir, that you have no idea of all the dangers which I foresee.  It is difficult to master the revolts of conscience.”

“Indeed!” interrupted the count contemptuously; “your conscience revolts, does it?  It has chosen its time badly.  Your scruples come too late.  So long as you saw that your inheritance consisted of an illustrious title and a dozen or so of millions, it pleased you.  To-day the name appears to you laden with a heavy fault, a crime, if you will; and your conscience revolts.  Renounce this folly.  Children, sir, are accountable to their fathers; and they should obey them.  Willing or unwilling, you must be my accomplice; willing or unwilling, you must bear the burden, as I have borne it.  And, however much you may suffer, be assured your sufferings can never approach what I have endured for so many years.”

“Ah, sir!” cried Albert, “is it then I, the dispossessor, who has made this trouble? is it not, on the contrary, the dispossessed!  It is not I who you have to convince, it is M. Noel Gerdy.”

“Noel!” repeated the count.

“Your legitimate son, yes, sir.  You act as if the issue of this unhappy affair depended solely upon my will.  Do you then, imagine that M. Gerdy will be so easily disposed of, so easily silenced?  And, if he should raise his voice, do you hope to move him by the considerations you have just mentioned?”

“I do not fear him.”

“Then you are wrong, sir, permit me to tell you.  Suppose for a moment that this young man has a soul sufficiently noble to relinquish his claim upon your rank and your fortune.  Is there not now the accumulated rancour of years to urge him to oppose you?  He cannot help feeling a fierce resentment for the horrible injustice of which he has been the victim.  He must passionately long for vengeance, or rather reparation.”

“He has no proofs.”

“He has your letters, sir.”

“They are not decisive, you yourself have told me so.”

“That is true, sir; and yet they convinced me, who have an interest in not being convinced.  Besides, if he needs witnesses, he will find them.”

“Who?  Yourself, viscount?”

“Yourself, sir.  The day when he wishes it, you will betray us.  Suppose you were summoned before a tribunal, and that there, under oath, you should be required to speak the truth, what answer would you make?”

M. de Commarin’s face darkened at this very natural supposition.  He hesitated, he whose honour was usually so great.

“I would save the name of my ancestors,” he said at last.

Albert shook his head doubtfully.  “At the price of a lie, my father,” he said.  “I never will believe it.  But let us suppose even that.  He will then call Madame Gerdy.”

“Oh, I will answer for her!” cried the count, “her interests are the same as ours.  If necessary, I will see her.  Yes,” he added with an effort, “I will call on her, I will speak to her; and I will guarantee that she will not betray us.”