The High Gods hold this world in an uncertain balance; and, whenever they decree to turn things topsy-turvy, they have only to flick it the myriadth part of a millimetre. The very next day they gave it such a flick, and it was Bigourdin and not Martin who went to Paris.
“Ma petite Félise,” said Bigourdin the next day, “I have received this morning from Paris a telegram despatched last night summoning me thither on urgent business. I may be away three or four days, during which I have arranged for the excellent Madame Chauvet who devoted such maternal care to you on the journey to Chartres to stay here pour les convenances.”
The subtle diplomatist smiled; so that when she questioned him as to the nature of this urgent business and he replied that it was a worrying matter of lawyers and stockbrokers, she accepted the explanation. But to Martin—
“Mon pauvre ami,” said he, with woe-begone face, “it is the mother of Félise. She is dying. A syncope. We must not let Félise know or she would insist on accompanying me, which would be impossible.”
Martin took a detached view of the situation.
“Why?” he asked. “She is a woman now and able to accept her share in the tragedy of life with courage and with reason. Why not let her go and learn the truth?”
Bigourdin waved a gesture of despair. “I detest like you this deception. Lying is as foreign to my character as to yours. But que veux-tu? In the tragedy of my brother-in-law there is something at once infinitely piteous and sublime. In a matter like this the commands of a father are sacred. Ah, my poor Cécile!” said he, passing a great hand swiftly across his eyes. “Twenty years ago, what a pretty girl she was! Of a character somewhat difficult and bizarre. But I loved her more than my sister Clothilde, who had all the virtues of the petite rosaire.” He fetched a deep sigh. “One is bound to believe in the eternal wisdom of the All-Powerful. There is nothing between that and the lunatic caprice of an almighty mad goat. That is why I hold to Christianity and embark on this terrible journey with fortitude and resignation.”
He held out his packet of Bastos to Martin. They lit cigarettes. To give this confidential information he had drawn Martin into the murky little bureau whose window looked upon the sad grey vestibule.
“I am sorry,” he said, “that your holiday has to be postponed. But it will only be for a few days. In the meantime I leave Félise in the loyal care of yourself and the good Madame Chauvet.”