And you ought to know this: that mamma did not believe you guilty. Neither did I. And father did not, I am sure of it. Yet he told us that weakness was a form of being guilty; and that a young man, whose family had taken care of him through all his early years and up to manhood, is not free to do anything that brings havoc on all his race. Now he doesn’t talk about you, ever. I suspect that he thinks about you often, and that it gives him great pain. Be considerate of him, Maurice, as well as of our mother, who is at rest. He has changed, very much. He had so much youth in his gait, his expression, his voice, and he grew old in a few days. He works without any rest. He forgets his misfortunes in his work. But I promised not to reproach you with anything. Nevertheless, you ought surely to be told what has become of us all, not having had any news of us for more than a year. He is so well thought of that not one of his clients has withdrawn his confidence from him.
Hubert, who ought to have stayed two years in France, secured leave to go back again to the colonies. He sailed last May for a post in the Soudan. He commands some quite advanced post, Sikasso, in the interior of the country. It is rather an exposed place, which was what he wanted.
Felicie is still in the hospital at Hanoi. She is very anxious about you. Not long ago she wrote to us about the death of two Belgian missionaries who were massacred on the frontiers of China. Instead of grieving over them, she rejoiced for them in their martyrdom, and regretted that she could not give her life for some one whom she called “the prodigal son”—some one whom you will recognise. She has inherited our mother’s ardent piety. May God keep her for us down there at the other end of the world.
The Marcellaz have left us. Though Germaine begged him not to, Charles sold his practice here, and acquired another at Lyons. It was very hard for us to have them go. Yet father maintains that Charles was right about it. He had an opportunity to settle nearer to his family, who are at Villa Franca, you see; he had to take advantage of it. They have spent their vacations with us at La Vigie. Peter and Adrienne got good red cheeks there. Little Julian, my favourite, is still rather pale, and as the air of Savoy agrees with him better than the Lyons fogs, Germaine has left him with us for the winter. He gives a bit of life to our big house, which is quite sad.
And that is all my news. In other times it was our mother who took charge of the news from the absent ones, and sent it on from one to another. You see I am trying to take her place. What I have still to tell you, Maurice, is the most difficult thing of all. However, I’ll tell it to you without recriminations. It seems to me it will be better so. First of all, I must tell you I am devoted to you just the same, then let you judge of our misery, which is yours, too.
You cannot surely be aware of what happened immediately after your departure: otherwise you would not have kept still so long and brought such sorrow on us. Mr. Frasne entered against you, yes, you, Maurice, a complaint of abuse of confidence. That’s what it is called: I’ve heard it talked about so much. He accused you of having stolen one hundred thousand francs from his safe. He brought a civil suit to bring about your extradition, and since you did not appear you were adjudged guilty by default. I’m explaining it to you with the words I have heard used. The council did not want to condemn you. But the clerks in the office, especially Mr. Philippeaux, testified against you at the hearing. They declared that you were aware the safe contained all that money, and that you stayed the last of all of them in the office, and had the keys, and that you knew the combination that would open it. And so the verdict was against you, though with extenuating circumstances, and they sentenced you to a year in prison. It seems that is the minimum. They took account of the influences you had come under. But they sentenced you, you understand. That was last month. Mamma was no longer here. When father told the news to me his face was so white that I was afraid for him. He controlled himself, as always. I should have preferred to see him weep. But he isn’t one of the kind that weep. He suffers inside, and that’s worse.
The judgment was posted on our door, published in the papers. It seems that is the law. All the old Roquevillards that have done so many services for their country could not shield us from this flaunting of our name.
There are also the one hundred thousand francs which you must restore to Mr. Frasne. Father is of a mind to sell La Vigie to pay them back. He says the length of your absence proves, unfortunately, that you must have used the money, which, from the point of view of honour, is the same as theft. Charles, on the other hand, argues that to pay the money is to admit that you are guilty, and that no such admission ought to be made at such a price. But he has not the family honour in his charge, and I for my part am with father. At all events, the court has decreed a sequestration to divide our mother’s fortune and obtain your part. From my own, since I am of age, father gave me the sum I am sending you, when I asked him for it. He appeared very much surprised. I don’t know if he suspects. I offered to show him your letter, but he refused to read it, with these words, which I copy down for you:
“No, he is dead to me, unless he comes back to prove his innocence.”
I have added one hundred francs for your return journey. You must come back. Consider the wrong that you have done to us. In the name of our mother, whose last desire it was, her last command, for the sake of father, whom you have wounded to the heart, such a noble and tender heart, in the name of Felicie and Hubert, who deserve it from you, of Germaine and your little sister, in the name of all our race, who for so many years have never given examples of anything but honesty, and who conjure you now not to upset in one day what so many successive generations have built up, come back, Maurice.