The meaner qualities came into play. The world did not know; what reason was there that it should be enlightened--that he should enlighten it, to his own injury? The secret belonged to two men--to himself and Gautran. It was not likely that Gautran would blurt it out to others; he valued his liberty too highly. So that it was as safe as though it were buried in a deep grave. As for the wrong done, it was a silent wrong. To ruin one's self for a sentiment would be madness; no one really suffered.
The unfortunate girl was at rest. She was a stranger; no person knew her, or was interested in her except for her beauty; she left no family, no father, mother, or sisters, to mourn her cruel death.
There was certainly the woman spoken of as Pauline, but she had disappeared, and was probably in no way related to Madeline. What more likely than that the elder woman's association with the younger arose out of a desire to trade upon the girl's beauty, and appropriate the profits to her own use? A base view of the matter, but natural, human. And having reaped a certain profit out of their trade in flowers, larger than was suspected, the crafty woman of the world had deliberately deserted Madeline and left her to her fate.
Why, then, should he step forward as her avenger, to the destruction of the great name he had spent the best fruits of his mind and the best years of his life to build up? To think of such a thing was Quixotism run mad.
One of the threads of these reflections--that which forced itself upon him as the toughest and the most prominent--was contempt of himself for permitting his thoughts to wander into currents so base. But that was his concern; it affected no other person, so long as he chose to hold his own counsel. The difficulty into which he was plunged was not of his seeking. Fate had dealt him a hard stroke; he received it on his shield instead of on his body. Who would say that that was not wise? What other man, having the option, would not have done as he was about to do?
"Cunning sophist, cunning sophist!" his conscience whispered to him; "think not that, wandering in these crooked paths of reasoning, you can find the talisman which will transform wrong into right, or remove the stain which will rest upon your soul."
He answered his conscience: "To none but myself is my soul visible. Who, then, can see the stain?"
His conscience replied: "God!"
"I will confess to Him." he said, "but not to man."
"There is but one right course," his conscience said; "juggle as you may, you know that there is but one right course."