“Why?” asked Jeanne.
“Oh, because Hubert, too, has thought of us.”
“Hubert?”
“Yes. He knew he was going to die. In the first part of his letter he tries to deceive us, to cheer us up. And then—and then he writes—there, wait a moment. God help me! I can’t see any more. He writes: ‘If, however, I must stay here always, I offer my life in sacrifice for the honour of our name, for Maurice’s salvation....’ You see, he gives me my orders. I must go.”
Jeanne burst into tears. Already Margaret, in an uplifted mood, was putting on her hat and veil. “I am sure father needs this letter. I can’t hesitate about it.”
Some mysterious connivance seemed at work in the family, between the living and the dead, something that mysteriously made them work together and united them across space and time.
“I’ll go with you,” said her friend, as resolute as she.
“Yes, come,” said Margaret. “I shall be braver if you come with me.”
And the two girls hurried out, passing along by the castle, its glowing walls warm in the winter sunshine; they took a short route through little streets, and beyond the market reached the court-house in a few minutes.
“The court-room, sir?” asked Margaret humbly of the doorkeeper.