“Yes, father.”
“And you were not going to tell me about it? God has taken pity on us. Our excess of misfortune has touched Him. Raymond’s conduct is very fine. He hasn’t waited for us to be publicly cleared of all disgrace before he came to us. And what did you say to him?”
“I refused him.”
Mr. Roquevillard gave an astonished movement and drew the girl nearer to him, looking deep into her great clear eyes.
“Refused him? Why? But I can guess: you were thinking of me. You are sacrificing yourself for your father. Your father won’t accept the sacrifice, sweetheart. I have told you often that parents must subordinate their lives to their children’s: that’s the natural order, not the contrary.”
“Father,” she murmured, “I love you so well. You know it. However, you deceive yourself, I assure you.”
“It was not for me you refused him?”
“No, father.”
A pure flame radiated from her eyes over all her colourless face, and he understood his daughter’s soul. Had he not once already had to read these signs? God was taking his children from him one by one. What a fever of renunciation and self-immolation stirred and burned in them! Must there not be in these successive sacrifices enough to furnish the redemption of the culprit, Maurice? He recalled one summer morning, in the glaring light on the docks at Marseilles, when he had watched the steamer sail away for China with Felicie on board. And he pressed Margaret closer to his trembling heart.
“You, too,” he murmured simply.