“You believe me, Andre.”
“Naturally, monsieur; and I am sorry, I am sorry that I am not your son.”
M. de Kercadiou gripped his godson’s hand convulsively, and held it a moment with no word spoken. Then as they fell away from each other again:
“And now, what will you do, Andre?” he asked. “Now that you know?”
Andre-Louis stood awhile, considering, then broke into laughter. The situation had its humours. He explained them.
“What difference should the knowledge make? Is filial piety to be called into existence by the mere announcement of relationship? Am I to risk my neck through lack of circumspection on behalf of a mother so very circumspect that she had no intention of ever revealing herself? The discovery rests upon the merest chance, upon a fall of the dice of Fate. Is that to weigh with me?”
“The decision is with you, Andre.”
“Nay, it is beyond me. Decide it who can, I cannot.”
“You mean that you refuse even now?”
“I mean that I consent. Since I cannot decide what it is that I should do, it only remains for me to do what a son should. It is grotesque; but all life is grotesque.”