“Andre, my poor lad,” he murmured. “I... I was fool enough to think you had no heart. You deceived me with your infernal pretence, and now I see... I see...” He was not sure what it was that he saw, or else he hesitated to express it. “It is nothing, monsieur. I am tired out, and... and I have a cold in the head.” And then, finding the part beyond his power, he abruptly threw it up, utterly abandoned all pretence. “Why... why has there been all this mystery?” he asked. “Was it intended that I should never know?” “It was, Andre. It... it had to be, for prudence’ sake.” “But why? Complete your confidence, sir. Surely you cannot leave it there. Having told me so much, you must tell me all.” “The reason, my boy, is that you were born some three years after your mother’s marriage with M. de Plougastel, some eighteen months after M. de Plougastel had been away with the army, and some four months before his return to his wife. It is a matter that M. de Plougastel has never suspected, and for gravest family reasons must never suspect. That is why the utmost secrecy has been preserved. That is why none was ever allowed to know. Your mother came betimes into Brittany, and under an assumed name spent some months in the village of Moreau. It was while she was there that you were born.” Andre-Louis turned it over in his mind. He had dried his tears. And sat now rigid and collected. “When you say that none was ever allowed to know, you are telling me, of course, that you, monsieur...” “Oh, mon Dieu, no!” The denial came in a violent outburst. M. de Kercadiou sprang to his feet propelled from Andre’s side by the violence of his emotions. It was as if the very suggestion filled him with horror. “I was the only other one who knew. But it is not as you think, Andre. You cannot imagine that I should lie to you, that I should deny you if you were my son?” “If you say that I am not, monsieur, that is sufficient.” “You are not. I was Therese’s cousin and also, as she well knew, her truest friend. She knew that she could trust me; and it was to me she came for help in her extremity. Once, years before, I would have married her. But, of course, I am not the sort of man a woman could love. She trusted, however, to my love for her, and I have kept her trust.” “Then, who was my father?” “I don’t know. She never told me. It was her secret, and I did not pry. It is not in my nature, Andre.” Andre-Louis got up, and stood silently facing M. de Kercadiou. “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.