"I don't know; I do not remember inviting any one."
Coucon departed, proud of the shake of the hand he had received, although he still rubbed his fingers to restore the circulation.
CHAPTER XLV.
"WHAT WILL HE DO?"
Esperance was alone; his brow was thoughtful. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly he started up, and drawing aside the heavy portière over a door, entered a small, dark room that seemed to be an oratory.
Stained glass windows admitted an uncertain light. Esperance threw open the sash and the daylight streamed in, and with it the delicious breeze of spring. Esperance turned to the wall, on which hung a fine picture of Monte-Cristo. Next this portrait hung one of his mother.
The young man spoke aloud. "Father!" he said, "mother! listen to me, judge me and counsel me. Who and what am I? What is my future to be? Am I guilty or am I—mad?"
Esperance shivered. Then throwing his head back proudly, he said, "No, I am not mad, and yet I cannot understand myself. Oh! father, why did I not have courage to speak to you frankly? You would have understood me and encouraged me. I am afraid of life, I am afraid of myself—afraid of the very name I bear, and of your greatness, the shadow of which falls on me."