“Grandfather is free!” I cried at the top of my voice.
I had thought to utter a tremendous shout, but I could hardly hear my own voice, and was astonished and vexed that I had not made more noise. Nevertheless, I perceived the immediate effect, which though quite enough to satisfy me, was far from reassuring. My father had turned suddenly, amazed at my presence and audacity. This time the road was closed, like that of the lakeside on stormy days. He gazed at us both by turns as if to discover some complicity, some understanding between us. Face to face with him we were really just nothing at all. He was strong enough to crush us both. His eyes flashed fire; his voice would roll over us like thunder; the storm that was about to overwhelm us would be terrible.
Why did he keep silent? What was he waiting for? Still he said nothing, and the silence became more distressing, more tragic. I could hear my own terror like the tick tock of a clock.
Having taken time to regain his self-control, by what must have been a superhuman effort, he turned from me that gaze that so terrified me, and spoke to grandfather:
“Very well,” he said, so calmly and gently that it disconcerted me; “I am no longer a candidate. We will not amuse the city with the sight of our divisions. But I will permit myself to give you one bit of advice. By my retirement Martinod will have secured what he wants; that was all he was after; now do not permit yourself to be any longer the tool of the man who has slandered me; do you on your side give up this candidacy, which is not at all in your line.”
If grandfather was surprised by this change of tactics, he did not show it in the least.
“Oh, it would be a great mistake for you to retire. You would perhaps have been elected, and as for me, it’s all one. My principal object is to disavow your political opinions. The family can’t command our ideas.”
Father seemed to hesitate a moment as to resuming the subject before deciding to let it go. He let it go because there was another matter even nearer to his heart.
“Let us say no more about it,” he said. “Something of far greater importance has been going on in my house, something that I can not tolerate. You have robbed me of this child whom I entrusted to you.”
The conflict was suddenly taking another form, and I had become its object. In a flash arose before me the scene when I was setting out for my first walk after my convalescence. We were all three upon the doorstep. Father was putting my hand into grandfather’s with the bewildering words, Here is my son—it is the future of the house. And grandfather answered with his little laugh, Don’t worry, Michel, no one will rob you of him. What did they mean? How could any one rob him of me?