My plain
duty was to win for your child that succession belonging to him by all
moral right. When Philip d'Avranche was killed, I set to work to do for
your child what had been done by another for Philip d'Avranche. I have
made him my heir. When he is of age I shall abdicate from the duchy in
his favour. This deed, countersigned by the Powers that dispossessed his
father, secures to him the duchy when he is old enough to govern."

Guida had listened like one in a dream. A hundred feelings possessed
her, and one more than all. She suddenly saw all Detricand's goodness to
her stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this day
to that far-off hour seven years before, when he had made a vow to
her--kept how nobly! Devoted friendship--was it devoted friendship
alone, even with herself? In a tumult of emotions she answered him
hurriedly. "No, no, no, no! I cannot accept it. This is not justice,
this is a gift for which there is no example in the world's history."

"I thought it best," he went on quietly, "to govern Bercy myself during
these troubled years. So far its neutrality has been honoured, but
who can tell what may come! As a Vaufontaine it is my duty to see that
Bercy's interests are duly protected amidst the troubles of Europe."

Guida got to her feet now and stood looking dazedly at the parchment in
her hand. The child, feeling himself neglected, ran out into the garden.

There was moisture in Guida's eyes as she presently said: "I had not
thought that any man could be so noble--no, not even you."

"You should not doubt yourself so," he answered meaningly. "I am the
work of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable life
again--"

He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. "This was the gage,"
he said, holding it up. "Do you remember the day I came to return it to
you, and carried it off again?"

"It was foolish of you to keep it," she answered softly, "as foolish of
you as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honours."

"But suppose the child in after years should blame you?" he answered
slowly and with emphasis. "Suppose that Guilbert should say, What right
had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?"

This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote her
heart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child?

Scarcely above a whisper she replied: "Of course he might say that, but
how, oh, how should we simple folk,