”—Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a difference. A boy—innocent, and the old baron’s grandchild. Besides, I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one’s clothes. What do you feel, Charles?”
If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire’s mind sprang quickly from point to point—weighing that, considering this. He saw that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him—would certainly raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him, and, if possible, get matters—and proofs—into his own hands.
“I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done.”
“Good.” The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire’s speech had come as a relief. The young man spoke again:
“Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!”
“Write! No. Why should I write? I’ve nothing to say, and he would not thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn this letter.”
Lemaire’s fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of not understanding: “Burn it? But why!”
“Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a witness against him.”
“Surely you don’t suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a story?”
“I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides André’s testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give it me. Give them both to me.”