"Andre, my reasons are overwhelming."
"Pray allow me to be the judge of that." André-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 André. "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. André, my boy..." He paused again, a man afraid. He set a hand on his godson's shoulder, and to his increasing amazement André-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 André-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.
