“No, no! Wait!” The Lord of Gavrillac was displaying signs of unspeakable distress. “Andre, you must!”
There was in this insistence and, still more, in the frenzied manner of it, something so unreasonable that Andre could not fail to assume that some dark and mysterious motive lay behind it.
“I must?” he echoed. “Why must I? Your reasons, monsieur?”
“Andre, my reasons are overwhelming.”
“Pray allow me to be the judge of that.” Andre-Louis’ manner was almost peremptory.
The demand seemed to reduce M. de Kercadiou to despair. He paced the room, his hands tight-clasped behind him, his brow wrinkled. At last he came to stand before his godson.
“Can’t you take my word for it that these reasons exist?” he cried in anguish.
“In such a matter as this—a matter that may involve my neck? Oh, monsieur, is that reasonable?”
“I violate my word of honour, my oath, if I tell you.” M. de Kercadiou turned away, wringing his hands, his condition visibly piteous; then turned again to Andre. “But in this extremity, in this desperate extremity, and since you so ungenerously insist, I shall have to tell you. God help me, I have no choice. She will realize that when she knows. Andre, my boy...” He paused again, a man afraid. He set a hand on his godson’s shoulder, and to his increasing amazement Andre-Louis perceived that over those pale, short-sighted eyes there was a film of tears. “Mme. de Plougastel is your mother.”
Followed, for a long moment, utter silence. This thing that he was told was not immediately understood. When understanding came at last Andre-Louis’ first impulse was to cry out. But he possessed himself, and played the Stoic. He must ever be playing something. That was in his nature. And he was true to his nature even in this supreme moment. He continued silent until, obeying that queer histrionic instinct, he could trust himself to speak without emotion. “I see,” he said, at last, quite coolly.