"How much does he know?" thought Pierre Lamont; "or are his suspicions but just aroused? There is a weight upon his soul which taxes all his strength. It is grand to see a strong man suffer as he is suffering. Is there a mystery in his trouble with which I am not acquainted? His wife--I know about her. Gautran--I know about him. But the stranger he left in his study in the middle of the night--a broken-down gentleman--vagabond, with a spice of wickedness in him--who is he, and what was his mission? Of one thing I must satisfy myself before I am assured that he is worthy of my compassion." Then he spoke aloud. "You said just now there are worse things than death."
"Aye."
"Disgrace?"
"In a certain form that may be borne, and life yet be worth the having."
"Good. Dishonour?"
"It matters little," said the Advocate; "but were the time not precious, I should be curious to learn why you desire to get at the heart of my secrets."
"The argument would be too long," said Pierre Lamont with earnestness, "but I can justify myself. There are worse things than death. Pardon me--an older man than yourself, and one who is well disposed towards you--for asking you bluntly whether such things have come to you?"
"They have. You can read the signs in my face."
"But if you have a secret, the revealing of which would be hurtful to you, cannot the mischief be averted? As far as I can expect you have been frank with me. Frankness for frankness. Say that the secret refers to Gautran and to your defence of him?"
"I have been living in a fool's paradise," said the Advocate with a scornful smile. "To whom is this known?"