"Sir," I said, "there is only one reason why I ever came here, and that
was because my mother requested it. She wanted you to know, sir, that she
regretted what she said almost the moment you left the house. If you had
ever written her, if you had ever sent a single word, you could have
changed it all. In spite of all the evidence, she never came fully to
believe it."

"Ah, but you believe it," said my father quickly.

I do not think he ever heard my answer. He had turned unsteadily in his
chair, and was facing the dying embers of the fire, his left hand limp on
the table before him. Again the spasm of pain crossed his face.
Mademoiselle still watched him, but without a trace of triumph. Indeed,
she seemed more kindly and more gentle than I had ever known her.

"Five hundred bales of shavings," she softly. "Ah, captain, there
are not many men who would do it. Not any that I know, save you and
the Marquis."

"Brutus," said my father, "a glass of rum."

With his eyes still on the fire, he drank the spirits, and sighed. "And
now, Brutus," he continued, "my volume of Rabelais."

But when it was placed beside him, he left it unopened, and still
continued to study the shifting scenes in the coals.