Notwithstanding his cold and rigid aspect, M. de la Varade was not a malicious or a severe man.

From the time of Francis I. to the Revolution of ’93, the family of la Varade had always held office in a judicial capacity. The first of the judges was ennobled because he labored to please the beautiful Diana, Countess de BrÉzÉ; one of the latest was guillotined because he had displeased the fair Manon Ladri, who had considerable influence with the Revolutionary authorities.

The father of the present juge d’instruction died, after the Restoration, attorney-general of the provinces.

M. de la Varade spoke with extreme difficulty. Naturally mild and indolent, the magistracy had few charms for him. His profession caused him many torments and vexations; but he would have thought himself wanting in self-respect and regard for the memory of his ancestors had he not continued to exercise the functions of the office.

“A la Varade,” said he to his son, “must be a magistrate: his nobility demands it.”

When the magistrate was alone, he bitterly regretted that he was not able to pursue a more congenial career, and expend in the gratification of his tastes his income of sixty thousand livres. He often asked himself if a citizen was not justified in withdrawing from such severe duties, when the State possessed many thousands of persons quite competent to fill the vacancy. His wife said “yes,” but his conscience said “no.”

Madame de la Varade, who ardently desired to reside in Paris, sometimes said to her lord,—

“Please to explain, mon ami, what society gains by substituting a la Varade for a Rabauel—for example—to instruct the big thieves how to draw the little ones to Versailles. Do you imagine that with your name and fortune you could not render service to your country in any other way? A pleasant duty, truly, that which you have chosen. You will exercise your functions for about twenty-five years, and then, as a reward, you will be made President of the Court in some out-of-the-way province.”

“As my fathers have done,” replied the husband, “I will do; and, God willing, I hope my sons will imitate my example.”

The wife shrugged her shoulders; the mother sighed.

Eusebe entered the cabinet of this magistrate, bowed, and waited the examination.

“Will you, monsieur,” said the magistrate, after some preliminary formalities, “narrate the circumstances which led to the rencontre between you and M. de la Soulaye?”

“But first,” replied Eusebe, eagerly, “I am accused of having inflicted blows and wounds upon my adversary. I desire you to take note that I did not hurt him at all.”

“That does not signify,” said the magistrate. “It is a mere form. Come to the facts of the case.”

“Is it possible that you are ignorant of them? These gentlemen say that they have told you all.”

“No matter: I must needs learn them from you.”

“Well, if you desire it,” rejoined Eusebe. And he then narrated his story of the quarrel and the duel.

“Sir,” said the magistrate, “it was you who gave the lie.”

“Certainly; and in my place you would have done the same.”

“I am not here to say what I should have done: I am here only to question you. Was the affair honorably conducted?”

“No.”

“With what do you reproach your adversary?”

“With having lied.”

“That is not the point. I speak of his conduct on the field of combat. I have nothing to do with the rest.”

“On the field, we were seven in number. My adversary could not have behaved dishonorably had we been but two. I have an arm equal to his own. I do not fear him.”

“You are doubtless skilful with the sword?”

“I do not know. Until this affair, I had never held a sword on guard.”

“Then there is nothing with which you can reproach your adversary?”

“Yes: with having lied.”

“And are you quite sure?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

“Then why did you fight?”

“Indeed, I don’t know. They told me that honor demanded that I should fight.”

“Then, if they had not represented honor as being so exacting, you would not have fought?”

“No: I would have told the man that he was an impostor, and that would have sufficed.”

The frankness of Eusebe evidently made an impression on the magistrate.

“Monsieur Martin,” said he, “I am a father. Permit me to address you as a man.”

Eusebe bowed, and the magistrate continued.

“Do you think that an actress cares for those who get themselves killed in her defence?”

“Yes,” replied the provincial, “when she is honorable and when she knows she is beloved.”

“And you love this creature?”

“Ah! monsieur, with all my heart!”

“Where and how did you make her acquaintance?”

Eusebe then related how his father had sent him to Paris to study life, admire civilization, and learn to distinguish the false from the true. His journey, his arrival, his illusions, his meeting with AdÉonne, his mode of life since then, his grief, his humiliation,—all,—were told with perfect candor and simplicity.

“My son,” said M. de la Varade, “I know something of human nature, and I feel sure that you are sincere. Your affair here will not be followed up. Now it is no longer the judge who speaks: it is the man. Listen! Up to the present time you have not followed the injunctions of your father: you are on the wrong road. Are you not conscious that your present pleasures are entirely factitious and forced? Have you never thought of the hollowness of such fancied enjoyments? Are you not ashamed of being absolutely nothing in a society where each individual has a mission?”

“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed the young man. “I have experienced all the sensations you describe. But what can I do, powerless as I am to discover the true path, and with no counsellor to point the way?”

“The true is synonymous with one word, which is the religion of society: that word is Duty.”