“I took little Julian for a walk. Then I wrote a long letter to Hubert.”
“Ah, so did I.”
The fate of Hubert was still a source of some anxiety to them. The last letter from the Soudan had brought news that the young officer was down with fever, ill in an isolated cabin, without a doctor. He made light himself of this unlucky piece of work, not taking it seriously, but a certain note of detachment in his letter, contrasted with a more than ordinarily affectionate way of putting his good-byes, struck both father and sister, and deeply affected them. They were silent, their hearts shaken. Margaret lighted the lamp, to chase away the darkness that was so full of evil omens. As she drew the curtains together some one knocked at the door.
“It’s they,” said Mr. Roquevillard.
And the girl had just time to disappear through the door that led into the apartment as her father went forward to receive his visitors. Mr. Hamel came in first, followed by Mr. Battard.
The president of the benchers enjoyed a respect and esteem at the bar in Chambéry which were the natural deserts of great age, great knowledge of the law and a dignified private life. He was a man of seventy-five, so thin that he rattled round in his threadbare frock-coat, a garment which he used to declare obstinately would last as long as he did. In winter time he draped himself in an antiquated overcoat, never bothering to put his arms through the sleeves. Above his shaven face a crown of white hair stood out in disorder, and his colourless cheeks were almost transparently thin. His tall figure was bent like those too slender poplars that are twisted by the wind, but his character was upright and unbroken. Nothing could ever have swerved him from the lines of conduct which the traditions of his family, in the best sense of the word, and his firm convictions had laid down for him at an early age. Cold and distant in bearing, a man of few words, he showed as much rigidity in his principles as proud courtesy in the relations of his daily life, displaying his high-mindedness as much in the ordinary circumstances as in the more important matters of existence. Good fortune and bad he had met with an even temper. Yet he had known more of bad fortune than of good in his later years, at the end of his life’s journey, when a man deserves repose. The unfortunate speculations of a son had ruined him, but he had set himself again quite simply to the task of gaining his daily bread. Rarely appearing in court, he was the counsellor most sought for in delicate matters by those who expected what was equitable and right. One seldom saw him outside of his office, a poor and shabby room, where one went with special cases for arbitrage and settlement as to a sovereign judge. When he left his office it was always in the evening, to walk rapidly to church, his air chilly and hurried, indifferent to the world about him, listening only to the voice of God, whose summons he waited for with patience and resignation.
One of those ancient friendships, by which people sharing the same kind of life and trials are united as strongly as by the ties of blood, united the old lawyer and Mr. Roquevillard, despite the great disparity in their ages. He had watched over the professional début of Mr. Roquevillard, who in turn had looked out for him in the wreck that later overwhelmed his material fortunes, holding out against his creditors, obtaining delays, organising sales and payments to the best advantage. When the younger man was laid low in his turn the elder came out of his retreat, conscious though he was of the chill and feebleness of his years.
Mr. Battard, by his reputation, was a natural second. This young man—for thus the old man called him in spite of his forty-five years—always caused him some anxiety, by reason of a certain cynicism in his conversation, and a tendency to take up cases for the fees he could get from them; but at the bar he was as formidable as a host, by turns ironical and flowery, mocking and eloquent. He would modulate his voice like a tenor, posturing like a favourite actor, and took at once the chief rôle, showing off his fine beard, his regular features, his finely polished bald head as if they were insignia of rank, stirring things up, flinging himself about, dominating the whole stage, and finally, with the cleverness of a conjurer, sweeping up jury and opposing counsel at once in the folds of his robe, which he flourished round him like a battle standard. This incontestable superiority in the court-room must be taken account of, and Mr. Hamel, a humble follower of truth, who detested all the trappings of eloquence and declamation, stilled his personal preferences to make the acquittal of his friend’s son more sure.
Even though Mr. Roquevillard had always kept Mr. Battard at a distance, and in the court-room would pitilessly turn inside out all this cleverness and seductiveness, by simple tactics that consisted in going straight to the point of things with the swiftness of a charge of cavalry, such was the force of professional loyalty that Mr. Battard had eagerly accepted the defence of Maurice, and had already shown himself active and resolute in his plans for it.
After they had shaken hands the president summed up the situation in a few words: