He turned his eyes from it, and through the windows, under the lowering sky, could see the castle of the old dukes, built gradually through the various epochs of its history, half dismantled now, but still imposing in its guerdon of the past. Better than any documents or archives, than any manuals or chronologies, it made one stop and think, because of the very fact that it remained standing like a witness in the flesh. Of itself it called up memories of ancient Savoy, and the times of his ancestors and rude wars, while the pointed arches of the Sainte-Chapelle symbolised the pious impulses of their hearts. What is left of the dead, with all their acts and sentiments, if these material signs, through which they realise and recall themselves, do not exist for us? Did La Vigie, its lands cleared, subdued, added to and restored, count for nothing in the destiny of the Roquevillards? And when it should be abandoned, would not its mainstay, the visible scene of its continuity, be lacking to his race? In landed properties one generation hands on the spade to another as ancient couriers used to pass the torch. And here was the last chief letting it fall.
But the lawyer turned his head away, spurning all hesitation. The patrimony was not all the family any more than prayer was the church, or courage a prison cell. Hubert and Felicie carried far away from their native soil, to the Soudan or to China, the vital energy that tradition had handed down to them. Maurice, restored again to his normal life, would root out his fault with toil. And as for Margaret, the flame of a devoted life burned steadily in her.
He addressed himself first to his daughter, as the youngest of the company, thinking to hear his thoughts echoed in her reply.
“You, Margaret,” he said, “speak first.”
“I, father? Everything that you do will be all right. Save Maurice, I implore you. If you think the sale of La Vigie is necessary, don’t hesitate. We don’t need a fortune. In any case, take my share. Don’t worry about me. I need very little to live on, and I’ll pull through somehow.”
“I knew it,” said Mr. Roquevillard approvingly.
He caressed Margaret’s hand softly, while he questioned his nephew next.
“And you, Leo. Remember your father,” he added, mistrusting him a little.
The young man assumed the important manner of one who has arrived, a man who has accomplished things, but who will give you his receipt for success just the same. He would tell these ignorant old men something about the ways of modern life, and the new conditions that make it so swift and real and egotistical.
“My dear uncle,” he began, “you are one of those old-timers who start up crusades everywhere and tilt at windmills. You don’t accomplish anything by ruining yourself. You ought to look at things in a more practical light. This very moment Maurice is blackmailing you with his ‘honour.’ Mrs. Frasne’s honour isn’t worth one hundred thousand francs. My nice cousin is blustering in his prison. When he comes into court he’ll sing smaller. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve often read the accounts of criminal trials in the newspapers, as every one does now. Even the most obstinate prisoners will turn on their victim or accomplices at the last moment to save themselves. The fear of an unfavourable verdict is the beginning of wisdom for them. Maurice is an intelligent boy, with everything to live for: he’ll understand. If by any chance he doesn’t, well, so much the worse for him, after all. It’s a sad thing to say before you, uncle, and I’m very sorry for it; but he would have it so, and I know you like frankness. His danger is all his own. A family isn’t jointly and severally responsible for the faults of one member. That’s one of those absurd theories that have been definitely relegated to the past in our day. ‘Each one for himself,’ is the new motto. No account’s taken of another’s debts, whether it’s your father or your brother or your son. If I earn money, it’s mine, and my good and bad acts are mine. There’s plenty of work looking out for your own happiness, without adding the terrible weight of twenty generations to it. Advance Maurice’s share to him if you insist on it, but hold back his brothers’ and sisters’, and something for yourself in your old age. As for La Vigie, I’d sell it as a matter of fact, if you can get a good price for it, not to buy the jury’s sympathy with it, but because land’s no good any more except to some peasant who worries it like a rat. Industry, machines—that’s the future, for individuals and for society, too.”