“I should like to see the Vicomte de Céligny for a minute or two,” said Gaston to the gaoler.
“Only members of the family, Monseigneur,” returned the precise old man, shaking his head. “I have very strict orders.”
“But since he is my son!” retorted M. de Trélan, in the most natural tone possible. “Come,” he went on, as the old man looked incredulous, “you are sufficiently old-fashioned to call me Monseigneur, and yet you affect not to know that the son of a duke rarely bears the same title as his father. Besides, if you doubt me, go and look at him!”
“Well, well,” said old Bernard, “if he is your son the order covers him, though his name is not on it. You swear that he is your son, Monsieur le Duc?”
“Yes, I swear it,” answered Gaston.
What a strange person and place to receive the first public avowal of his relationship to Roland! He leant against the table and put his hand over his eyes, for indeed the victory he had won in the last hour was only less prostrating than a defeat. When he removed it, Roland was through the door, was on one knee before him, trying to seize his hand and kiss it, and half sobbing out the old appellation, “Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!”
Gaston stooped and raised him. “Am I only that to you, Roland, my son, my son!”
And, actually in his father’s arms, the warring tides of emotion in the boy’s breast were stilled. He hid his face there, trembling a little. But Gaston said never a word till he took his son’s head between his hands and lifted it. “You are like your mother,” he said in a low voice, looking into his eyes. “You may think of me as you like, Roland, but of her you must think as you have always done. The blame was mine, and mine alone.” And he kissed him.
With his hero’s kiss on his forehead, Roland was in no state to apportion blame between that hero in his mortal peril, and the mother whom he did not remember. He drew a long breath and said, “If only I can be what your son ought to be, sir!”
Gaston smiled rather sadly. “Take a better example, my child. But there is one way in which you can—no, I think I have really no need to point it out to you. If I am shot, Mme de Trélan——”