Everyone greeted the philosopher with delight when he appeared in the ante-chamber where the guests were assembled before dinner. The Duke came to present his greetings to Mme. Darbois and stayed talking to her for some time. He saw that she liked him, but foresaw at the same time that it would be very painful for the good woman to have to accept another son-in-law. During dinner the Duchess steered the conversation towards philosophy, wishing to please FranÇois, who was placed on her right—art and science being to her the highest titles of nobility.

"Ah! I am no philosopher," protested the Marquis de Montagnac. "I accept old age only as a chastisement, and not having committed any criminal act, I revolt against the injustice of it."

And Louis de Marset, bending towards his neighbour, who had had a great reputation for beauty before age and illness had pulled her down, remarked, "One cannot be and have been, is not that true, Madame?"

"You are mistaken, my dear sir. There are some poor people who are born fools and never change."

A smile of delight appeared on every face.

The Duke found himself in an argument with Lord Glerey, a phlegmatic Englishman, whose marital misfortunes had made both London and Paris laugh.

"You seem," said the Duke, "to confuse indifference with philosophy."

"I do not confuse them, my dear sir. My apparent indifference is simply scorn for the sarcasms, the cruelty of the people of society who are always ready to rejoice when anyone attacks the honour or love of another."

The Duke murmured slowly, "Certainly what they call 'the world' deserves scorn. And all the same, taken separately, every individual of this collectivity is a man or woman like any other, a suffering being, who laughs just the same, like an eternal Figaro, for fear of being compelled to weep."

Count Albert was talking to an old sceptic.

"But," the Countess de Morgueil addressed him suddenly, "What would you do, if on the eve of attaining the longed-for happiness, you found yourself suddenly confronted by an insurmountable obstacle."

"Everything would depend on the quality of the happiness in prospect, Madame. Some happiness easily abandoned, and some happiness is to be struggled for until death itself."

Maurice had guessed the point of this sudden attack. He was none the less surprised by Albert's answer.

"Decidedly, it is going to be even more difficult than I feared," he thought.

Indeed, Count Albert had evidently assumed a change of attitude. Love and jealousy had transformed this simple and generous heart into a being of metal; he had not lost any of his goodness, but he had put his soul in a state of defence and prepared himself for the struggle. He did not know anything, but his presentiments filled him with anguish. He was not unaware that his austerity provoked irony, but now it seemed to him that the irony was taking a form of pity which enraged him.

Dinner was over, the great hall filled with groups gathered together as their tastes dictated. Bridge and poker tables were produced, and some of the young people gathered about a table where liqueurs were being served. Maurice took his uncle by the arm and led him away.

"Let us go to your room, for no one must hear what I have to say to you."

"Not even your aunt?"

"No, uncle, not even aunt."

FranÇois was astonished, for he had supposed that it was of his own future that Maurice wished to speak. They went towards the Tower of Saint Genevieve.

"Uncle, what I have to say to you is very grave."

"What a lot of preamble! Well, I am listening."

"The Duke de Morlay-La-Branche loves Esperance passionately."

"Well, that is a pity for the Duke, but he will console himself easily enough."

Maurice was silent before he continued, "Esperance is madly in love with the Duke!"

FranÇois started violently.

"You are raving, Maurice; she is engaged to Count Styvens and has no right to forget him."

"She has never been in love with the Count, and can hardly endure him since she has foreseen another future."

"What future?"

"The Duke wants to marry Esperance."

"But it is impossible, impossible," said the philosopher violently. "A word that has been given cannot be taken back so lightly."

"Calm yourself, uncle, if you please. For three days I have been wandering about in this untenable situation. We must make a decision. Every instant I fear an outbreak either from Albert or from the Duke."

"How have Esperance and the Duke contrived to see each other?"

"I will tell you all that uncle, later, but the how and the why are not very important at this moment. I want you to send for Albert. Esperance does not wish to marry him. She has loved the Duke a long time, but did not know that he loved her, and did not suppose an alliance possible between our families, even though you have made the name illustrious. For that matter I should never have supposed myself that the Duke would consent to make what would generally be considered a mÉsalliance."

"It all seems unbelievable," murmured FranÇois.

And with his head in his hands he groaned despairingly, "How can we sacrifice that noble and unfortunate Albert?"

"One of the three must suffer, uncle. It would be a crime to sacrifice Esperance who has the right to love whom she pleases and to choose her own life. The Duke Morlay is loved, Count Albert is not and never has been. He knows it as you know it now. Esperance consented to marry him through gratitude to you."

"Ah! I feared as much," said the professor prostrated.

FranÇois Darbois remained a long time in thought, then he got up, his face lined with sadness.

"Tell your cousin to come to me, I will wait for her here."

"I will send her to you at once. Forgive me for having so distressed you, dear uncle."

"It was your duty!"

FranÇois pressed his hand affectionately. Left alone he felt despairing. The futility of the precautions he had taken, the inanity of all reasoning, of all logic, plunged him into the scepticism he had been combatting for so many years.

Maurice found his cousin talking to Albert, the Marquis of Montagnac, and Genevieve.

"Your father is feeling a little indisposed and is going to bed. Would not you like to say good-night to him?"

Esperance rose immediately. Albert wanted to go with her, but Maurice held him back, and began asking under what conditions he proposed to play the duet with Esperance next day.

"It is all one to me," replied the Count wearily. "I am in a hurry to get away from here. I find myself too much disturbed by my nerves, and you know, cousin, how unusual it is for me to be nervous."

At this term of family familiarity, Maurice shivered. He thought of the interview now taking place in his uncle's room. Genevieve joined them and they strolled up and down, but Albert made them return continually near the tower.

When Esperance opened the door of the little salon where her father was waiting, she saw him in such an attitude of distress that she threw herself at his knees.

"Father, darling father, I ask your pardon. I am ruining your life just as you begin to reap the harvest of so many noble efforts. You have been so good to me," she sobbed, "and I must seem to you so ungrateful. Do not suffer so, I beg you. Take me away with you, let us go and I will do my best to forget; let us go!"

"But," said the Professor, hesitatingly, "Albert would follow."

The girl rose.

"Oh! no, not that. I wish I could marry Albert without loving him; I have tried, but I cannot go on to the end, I cannot!"

"You really love the Duke?"

"Father, for a whole year I have struggled against that love."

"Why have you never told me?"

"Because I saw nothing in the Duke's attentions except the agitation they caused me; and I was too ashamed to speak of it to you. I thought, considering the position of the Duke, that I was an aspiring fool. He overheard me talking to Genevieve. When he appeared before us, I so little expected to see him there at such an hour—six o'clock in the morning, in the grove—that my heart could not bear the shock, and I fainted. From that instant I understood how much I loved him. I had no idea before of the power of love, but now I feel it the master of my life. I will sacrifice that to your will, father; but I will not sacrifice the immense happiness of loving. Even if the Duke did not love me, I should still be uplifted by my own love."

She sat down beside her father.

"Who knows what unhappiness may not be lurking for me, ready to spring at any moment?"

She drew near him shivering.

FranÇois took her charming head in his hands. He looked at her tenderly, but with an expression almost of terror in his face.

"Alas! all happiness built upon the unhappiness of others always risks disillusionment—and collapse."

"Dear father, my life has been bathed in such sunlight for the last three days, that I shall keep that glow of warmth for the rest of my life."

"I only ask, you little daughter, to do nothing, to say nothing, before the end of this fÊte. We have no right, however grave our personal troubles and responsibilities are, to betray the hospitality of the Duchess. To-morrow, after the fÊte, I will talk to Albert. Go, my darling, go back to that poor boy. I hate to send you to practice a dissimulation that I abhor, but we are in a situation of such delicacy and difficulty…. God keep you!"

He kissed her tenderly. She went back to her fiancÉ, to find to her surprise that the Countess de Morgueil had just passed by with him. Maurice pointed them out where they were walking slowly in the distance.

"Oh! so much the better," said Esperance. "That gives me an excuse to go to my room."

Maurice urged her to wait. "I am convinced that that woman is meddling in our affairs. It is plain enough that we have upset her."

"How? What do you mean, cousin?"

"Did you not know that the Countess is madly in love with the Duke, and that she had hoped to marry him this winter?"

"Poor woman," sighed Esperance, sincerely.

The Duke came by, and seeing them alone, he joined them.

"The three of you alone?" he cried. "Then you will allow me to join you for a moment?"

"Look," said Maurice, indicating Albert and the Countess de Morgueil.

"There is a dangerous woman who is making mischief at this moment!…
And, nevertheless, I owe her the happiness this moment brings me."

"My father," said Esperance, "has been as indulgent to me as always."

"Thanks for these tidings," said the Duke. "Do you think he will receive me to-morrow, if I go to him?"

"Oh! certainly, after the fÊte; a little while after, for first he wished to speak to Count Styvens," she said timidly.

"Will you," the Duke asked Maurice, "make an appointment for me, and tell me as soon as you have an answer?"

"With pleasure."

The Duke bowed to the girls and withdrew. He took Maurice's hand, "I am happy, my friend, everything is going as I wish. I seem to hear laughter coming out of the shadows."

And he disappeared.

The young people waited for Albert a little while longer, but as he did not appear, Maurice advised the girls to retire, and he returned to sit down anxiously under the oak.

He had been there hardly a quarter of an hour when he saw the Countess de Morgueil go by. She was alone and walked nervously. On the doorstep she stopped and looked back into the distance. He saw her tremble, then go in quickly. He stood up on his bench to see what she had been looking at, but he almost fell, and had to steady himself by holding on to a branch. Albert and the Duke were together. Albert had put his hand on the Duke's shoulder, and the Duke had removed that great hand. They were walking side by side towards the extensive terrace that commanded the countryside.

"Oh! the wretched woman! What can she have said? And to be able to do nothing, nothing," he thought.

He lighted a cigarette, waiting, he did not know for what. But he could not go back to his room.

As he put his hand on the Duke's shoulder Albert had said, "I wish to talk to you."

"Very well. I am listening."

"I want you to answer me with perfect truth."

"Your request would be offensive, Albert, if it were not for your emotion."

"Is it true that you love Esperance Darbois?"

"It is true."

"Is it true that you want to marry her?"

"It is true."

"My God! My God!" muttered Albert, and he stopped for a minute. He was choking. The Duke felt a profound pity for this man who was suffering at this moment the most terrible pain.

"Do you believe that she loves you?" Albert still went on.

"I have answered you with perfect frankness concerning myself, but do not ask me to answer for Mlle. Darbois."

"Yes; you are right, you cannot answer for her. I know that she does not love me, but I hoped to make her love me. I wanted to make her so happy!… That love has made a different man of me. What I regarded yesterday as a crime seems to me now the will of destiny. One of us two must disappear. If you kill me, I know her soul, she will not marry you; she would die rather. If I kill you, the tender compassion she feels for me will be changed into hatred. What I am doing now is a brutal act, an animal act, but I cannot do otherwise! My religious education had restrained my passions! At least I thought so," he said, passing his great hand across his stubborn forehead. "But no! My youth denied of love takes a terrible revenge upon me now, and I have to exert a horrible effort now not to strangle you."

The Duke had not stirred.

"I am at your orders, Albert; only I think you will have to arm yourself with patience for several hours longer. This fÊte, given by the Duchess, cannot be prevented by our quarrel. I suggest that you postpone our meeting until to-morrow evening. Our witnesses can meet if you like at one o'clock at the little Inn of the 'Three Roads.' It is only ten minutes distance from here. The innkeeper is loyal to me, I am his daughter's godfather. The garden is cut by a long alley which can serve as the field of honour. I will go at once to warn De Montagnac and his brother; then I will go to the 'Three Roads.'"

"Good," said Albert.

"Naturally, we leave Maurice Renaud out of our quarrel."

"Certainly," said Charles de Morlay bowing.

They parted. From a distance the young painter saw the Duke enter the great hall. Several minutes later Albert's tall form barred the horizon for a moment. He looked at the Tower of Saint Genevieve, then he also entered the hall. Then Maurice decided to go in himself. He sat down by a little table littered with magazines and periodicals, and picked up one, without ceasing for an instant to watch the two men. The Duke de Morlay was standing behind the Marquis, who was still at the whist table. Albert Styvens had sat down beside a diplomat from Italy, Cesar Gabrielli, a serious young man, a clever diplomat, and a renowned fencer. When Montagnac finished his hand, the Duke offered him a cigar.

"Will you help me with some arrangements for the performance to-morrow?"

He was about to refuse, but the Duke said briefly, "It is important, come!"

The two of them went out, only lingering a little on the way for a joke with the men and a compliment to the ladies. Then Maurice watched the diplomat, who rose at the same time, and invited Albert to admire the moon from the terrace. Maurice saw them disappearing towards the corner by the Chinese umbrella. That was the end of the terrace, and was out of sight from all the windows.

"It is all plain enough," thought the young man, "but when, where?"

He understood that neither of the two adversaries could take him either for confidant or for second.

"However," he said, as he went to his room. "I want to know. I must know. I will know."