true political religion. But I do
not risk my neck for her--no, nor yours, nor Aline's."

"Ah! But, Andre..."

"That is my last word, monsieur. It is growing late, and I desire to
sleep in Paris."

"No, no! Wait!" The Lord of Gavrillac was displaying signs of
unspeakable distress. "Andre, you must!"

There was in this insistence and, still more, in the frenzied manner of
it, something so unreasonable that Andre could not fail to assume that
some dark and mysterious motive lay behind it.

"I must?" he echoed. "Why must I? Your reasons, monsieur?"

"Andre, my reasons are overwhelming."

"Pray allow me to be the judge of that." Andre-Louis' manner was almost
peremptory.

The demand seemed to reduce M. de Kercadiou to despair. He paced the
room, his hands tight-clasped behind him, his brow wrinkled. At last he
came to stand before his godson.

"Can't you take my word for it that these reasons exist?" he cried in
anguish.

"In such a matter as this--a matter that may involve my neck? Oh,
monsieur, is that reasonable?"

"I violate my word of honour, my oath, if I tell you." M. de Kercadiou
turned away, wringing his hands, his condition visibly piteous; then
turned again to Andre. "But in this extremity, in this desperate
extremity, and since you so ungenerously insist, I shall have to tell
you. God help me, I have no choice. She will realize that when she
knows. Andre, my boy..." He paused again, a man afraid. He set a hand
on his godson's shoulder, and to his increasing amazement Andre-Louis
perceived that over those pale, short-sighted eyes there was a film of
tears. "Mme. de Plougastel is your mother."

Followed, for a long moment, utter silence. This thing that he was
told was not immediately understood. When understanding came at last
Andre-Louis' first impulse was to cry out. But he possessed himself,
and played the Stoic. He must ever be playing something. That was in his
nature. And he was true to his nature even in this supreme moment. He
continued silent until, obeying that queer histrionic instinct, he could
trust himself to speak without emotion. "I see," he said, at last, quite
coolly.

His mind was sweeping back over the past. Swiftly he reviewed his
memories of Mme. de Plougastel, her singular if sporadic interest in
him, the curious blend of affection and wistfulness which her manner
towards him had always presented, and at last he understood so much that
hitherto had intrigued him.

"I see