He lowered his head despondently, and in a tone of profound discouragement, he replied: “But what can I do? How can I escape from the web which has been woven around me with such fiendish cunning? If I had possessed my usual presence of mind at the moment of the accusation, I might have defended and justified myself, perhaps. But now the misfortune is irreparable. How can I unmask the traitor, and what proofs of his guilt can I cast in his face?”
“All the same, you ought not to yield without a struggle,” interrupted Madame Ferailleur, sternly. “It is wrong to abandon a task because it is difficult; it must be accepted, and, even if one perish in the struggle, there is, at least, the satisfaction of feeling that one has not failed in duty.”
“But, mother——”
“I must not keep the truth from you, Pascal! What! are you lacking in energy? Come, my son, rise and raise your head. I shall not let you fight alone. I will fight with you.”
Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother’s hands and pressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His overstrained nerves relaxed under the soothing influence of maternal tenderness and devotion. Reason, too, had regained her ascendency. His mother’s noble words found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide as an act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory was assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in her plans. “It is evident,” she resumed, “that M. de Coralth is the author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Has he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have you discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?”
“No, mother.”
“Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being. Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure that you are in nobody’s way? Consider carefully. Your profession has its dangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies.”
Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last illumined the darkness—a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but still a gleam of light.
“Who knows!” he muttered; “who knows!”
Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of her reflections brought a flush to her brow. “This is one of those cases in which a mother should overstep reserve,” said she. “If you had a mistress, my son——”