degradation at which I have
been placed in his name? I have not dared to ascertain. What I can say
is that my poor father, who knew more about it than any one else in the
family, whispered to me when he was dying: 'Bernard, your brother is
killing me. I am dying of shame, my child.'"

He paused for a moment, compelled by his suffocating emotion, then
continued:

"My father died, Monsieur Le Merquier, but my mother is still alive, and
it is for her sake, for her repose, that I have recoiled, that I still
recoil from making public my justification. Thus far the filth that has
been thrown at me has not splashed upon her. It does not extend outside
a certain social circle, a special class of newspapers, from which the
dear woman is a thousand leagues away. But the courts, a law-suit, means
the parading of our misfortune from one end of France to the other, the
_Messager_ articles printed by every newspaper, even those in the
retired little place where my mother lives. The slander itself, my
defence, both her children covered with shame at one blow, the family
name--the old peasant woman's only pride--tarnished forever. That would
be too much for her. And really it seems to me that one is enough. That
is why I have had the courage to hold my peace, to tire out my enemies,
if possible, by my silence. But I need some one to answer for me in the
Chamber, I wish to deprive it of the right to eject me for reasons
dishonoring to me, and as it selected you to report upon my election, I
have come to tell everything to you, as to a confessor, a priest, begging
you not to divulge a word of this conversation, even in the interest of
my cause. I ask nothing but that, my dear colleague,--absolute reticence
on this subject; for the rest I rely upon your justice and your loyalty."

He rose, prepared to go, and Le Merquier did not stir, still questioning
the green hanging in front of him, as if seeking there an inspiration
for his reply. At last,--

"It shall be as you wish, my dear colleague," he said. "This confidence
shall remain between ourselves. You have told me nothing, I have heard
nothing."

The Nabob, still all aflame with his eloquent outburst, which, as it
seemed to him, called for a cordial response, a warm grasp of the hand,
had a strangely uneasy feeling. That cold manner, that absent expression
weighed so heavily upon him, that he was already walking to the door
with the awkward salutation of unwelcome visitors. But th