s intelligence
and his honour. Has he descended to that degree of baseness which I, in
his name, am accused of? I have not dared to find out. All I can say
is, that my poor father, who knew more than any one in the family of
it, whispered to me in dying, 'Bernard, it is your elder brother who has
killed me. I die of shame, my child.'"

He paused, compelled by his suppressed emotion; then:

"My father is dead, Maitre Le Merquier, but my mother still lives, and
it is for her sake, for her peace, that I have held back, that I hold
back still, before the scandal of my justification. Up to now, in fact,
the mud thrown at me has not touched her; it only comes from a certain
class, in a special press, a thousand leagues away from the poor woman.
But law courts, a trial--it would be proclaiming our misfortune from
one end of France to the other, the articles of the official paper
reproduced by all the journals, even those of the little district where
my mother lives. The calumny, my defence, her two children covered
with shame by the one stroke, the name--the only pride of the old
peasant--forever disgraced. It would be too much for her. It would be
enough to kill her. And truly, I find it enough, too. That is why I
have had the courage to be silent, to weary, if I could, my enemies by
silence. But I need some one to answer for me in the Chamber. It must
not have the right to expel me for reasons which would dishonour me, and
since it has chosen you as the chairman of the committee, I am come to
tell you everything, as to a confessor, to a priest, begging you not to
divulge anything of this conversation, even in the interests of my case.
I only ask you, my dear colleague, absolute silence; for the rest, I
rely on your justice and your loyalty."

He rose, ready to go, and Le Merquier did not move, still asking the
green curtain in front of him, as if seeking inspiration for his answer
there. At last he said:

"It shall be as you desire, my dear colleague. This confidence shall
remain between us. You have told me nothing, I have heard nothing."

The Nabob, still heated with his burst of confidence, which demanded,
it seemed to him, a cordial response, a pressure of the hand, was seized
with a strange uneasiness. This coolness, this absent look, so unnerved
him that he was at the door with the awkward bow of one who feels
himself importunate, when the other stopped him.

"Wait, then, my dear colleague. What a hurry you are i