As for the matter in question, he would think it over again, and in any case, he promised Molinier to do nothing without consulting him. He would simply give orders for a discreet watch to be kept, and as the thing had been going on for three months, it might just as well go on for another few days or weeks. Besides, the summer holidays were upon them and would necessarily disperse the delinquents. Au revoir!

At last Profitendieu was able to quicken his pace.

As soon as he got in, he hurried to his dressing-room and turned on the water for his bath. Antoine had been looking out for his master’s return and managed to come across him in the passage.

This faithful man-servant had been in the family for the last fifteen years; he had seen the children grow up. He had seen a great many things—and suspected a great many more; but he pretended not to notice anything his masters wished to keep hidden.

Bernard was not without affection for Antoine; he had not wanted to leave the house without saying good-bye to him. Perhaps it was out of irritation against his family that he made a point of confiding to a servant that he was going away, when none of his own people knew it; but, in excuse for Bernard, it must be pointed out that none of his own people were at that time in the house. And besides, Bernard could not have said good-bye to them without the risk of being detained. Whereas to Antoine, he could simply say: “I’m going away.” But as he said it, he put out his hand with such a solemn air that the old servant was astonished.

“Not coming back to dinner, Master Bernard?”

“Nor to sleep, Antoine.” And as Antoine hesitated, not knowing what he was expected to understand, nor whether he ought to ask any further questions, Bernard repeated still more meaningly: “I’m going away”; then he added: “I’ve left a letter for …” He couldn’t bring himself to say “Papa,” so he corrected his sentence to “on the study writing table. Good-bye.”

As he squeezed Antoine’s hand, he felt as moved as if he were then and there saying good-bye to all his past life. He repeated “good-bye” very quickly and then hurried off before the sob that was rising in his throat burst from him.

Antoine wondered whether it were not a heavy responsibility to let him go in this way—but how could he have prevented him?

That this departure of Bernard’s would be a blow to the whole family—an unexpected—a monstrous blow—Antoine indeed was well aware; but his business as a perfect servant was to pretend to take it as a matter of course. It was not for him to know what Monsieur Profitendieu was ignorant of. No doubt, he might simply have said to him: “Do you know, sir, that Master Bernard has gone away?” But by so saying, he would lose his advantage, and that was highly undesirable. If he awaited his master so impatiently, it was to drop out in a non-committal, deferential voice, and as if it were a simple message left by Bernard, this sentence, which he had elaborately prepared beforehand:

“Before going away, sir, Master Bernard left a letter for you in the study”—a sentence so simple that there was a risk of its passing unperceived; he had racked his brains in vain for something which would be more striking, and had found nothing which would be at the same time natural. But as Bernard never left home, Profitendieu, whom Antoine was watching out of the corner of his eye, could not repress a start.

“Before going …”

He pulled himself up at once; it was not for him to show his astonishment before a subordinate; the consciousness of his superiority never left him. His tone as he continued was very calm—really magisterial.

“Thank you.” And as he went towards his study: “Where did you say the letter was?”

“On the writing table, sir.”

And in fact, as Profitendieu entered the room, he saw an envelope placed conspicuously opposite the chair in which he usually sat when writing; but Antoine was not to be choked off so easily, and Monsieur Profitendieu had not read two lines of the letter, when he heard a knock at the door.

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that there are two persons waiting to see you in the back drawing-room.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Are they together?”

“They don’t seem to be, sir.”

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know. They want to see you, sir.”

Profitendieu felt his patience giving way.

“I have already said and repeated that I don’t want to be disturbed when I’m at home—especially at this time of day; I have my consulting room at the law-courts. Why did you let them in?”

“They both said they had something very urgent to say to you, sir.”

“Have they been here long?”

“Nearly an hour.”

Profitendieu took a few steps up and down the room, and passed one hand over his forehead; with the other he held Bernard’s letter. Antoine stood at the door, dignified and impassive. At last, he had the joy of seeing the judge lose his temper and of hearing him for the first time in his life stamp his foot and scold angrily.

“Deuce take it all! Can’t you leave me alone? Can’t you leave me alone? Tell them I’m busy. Tell them to come another day.”

Antoine had no sooner left the room than Profitendieu ran to the door.

“Antoine! Antoine! And then go and turn off my bath.”

Much inclined for a bath, truly! He went up to the window and read:

SIR,

Owing to an accidental discovery I happened to make this afternoon, I have become aware that I must cease to regard you as my father. This is an immense relief to me. Realizing as I do how little affection I feel for you, I have for a long time past been thinking myself an unnatural son; I prefer knowing I am not your son at all. You will perhaps consider that I ought to be grateful to you for having treated me as if I were one of your own children; but, in the first place, I have always felt the difference between your behaviour to them and to me, and, secondly, I know you well enough to feel certain that you acted as you did because you were afraid of the scandal and because you wished to conceal a situation which did you no great honour—and, finally, because you could not have acted otherwise. I prefer to leave without seeing my mother again, because I am afraid that the emotion of bidding her a final good-bye might affect me too much and also because she might feel herself in a false position in my presence—which I should dislike. I doubt whether she has any very lively affection for me; as I was almost always away at school, she never had time to know much of me, and as the sight of me must have continually reminded her of an episode in her life which she would have liked to efface, I think my departure will be a relief and a pleasure to her. Tell her, if you have the courage to, that I bear her no grudge for having made a bastard of me; on the contrary, I prefer that to knowing I am your son. (Pray excuse me for writing in this way; it is not my object to insult you; but my words will give you an excuse for despising me and that will be a relief to you.)

If you wish me to keep silent as to the secret reasons which have induced me to leave your roof, I must beg you not to attempt to make me return to it. The decision I have taken is irrevocable. I do not know how much you may have spent on supporting me up till now; as long as I was ignorant of the truth I could accept living at your expense, but it is needless to say that I prefer to receive nothing from you for the future.