M. Lacheneur appeared almost ready to succumb to the torture of the terrible conflict raging in his soul.
“Return!” he exclaimed. “What shall I return? That which I have received? So be it. I consent. I will give the duke the eighty thousand francs; to this amount I will add the interest on this sum since I have had it, and—we shall be free of all obligation.”
The girl sadly shook her head.
“Why do you resort to subterfuges which are so unworthy of you?” she asked, gently. “You know perfectly well that it was Sairmeuse which Mademoiselle Armande intended to intrust to the servant of her house. And it is Sairmeuse which must be returned.”
The word “servant” was revolting to a man, who, at least, while the empire endured, had been a power in the land.
“Ah! you are cruel, my daughter,” he said, with intense bitterness; “as cruel as a child who has never suffered—as cruel as one who, having never himself been tempted, is without mercy for those who have yielded to temptation.
“It is one of those acts which God alone can judge, since God alone can read the depths of one’s secret soul.
“I am only a depositary, you tell me. It was, indeed, in this light that I formerly regarded myself.
“If your poor sainted mother was still alive, she would tell you the anxiety and anguish I felt on being made the master of riches which were not mine. I trembled lest I should yield to their seductions; I was afraid of myself. I felt as a gambler might feel who had the winnings of others confided to his care; as a drunkard might feel who had been placed in charge of a quantity of the most delicious wines.
“Your mother would tell you that I moved heaven and earth to find the Duc de Sairmeuse. But he had left the Count d’Artois, and no one knew where he had gone or what had become of him. Ten years passed before I could make up my mind to inhabit the chateau—yes, ten years—during which I had the furniture dusted each morning as if the master was to return that evening.