Forces within him
were at war. He was uneasy. That his father had fought D'Herouville
on his account there could be no doubt. What a sorry world it was,
with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths! The last meeting with
his father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, biting
dialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his cause
unasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race. He was
chagrined, angered. Had the old days been lived rightly and with
reason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings,
life would have run smoothly enough. Had this strange old man, whom
fate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode of
expression, without tact? Three thousand miles; 'twas a long way when
a letter would have been sufficient. But the cruelty of that lie, and
the bitterness of all these weeks! If his thrusts that night had been
cruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should not
moderate a single word. The lie, the abominable lie! One does not
forgive such a lie, at least not easily. And yet that duel! He would
have given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacques
described it.
Pages:
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415