He has risen, from an instinctive desire to dominate; he stands there before her upright--forgetful or regardless of his physical pain--and lays his hand gravely, tenderly, authoritatively on Marguerite’s shoulder. He is well aware that her repentance for what he chooses to consider a passing weakness, has never been more than half-hearted; he would like to tell her now that this sorrow, this trial may serve to redeem her; but he can find no formula to satisfy him--none that he can hope she will listen to. Marguerite’s shoulder resists the gentle pressure of his hand. She knows so well that from every event of life--even the smallest--he invariably, intolerably, extracts, as with a forceps, some moral teaching--he interprets and twists everything to suit his own dogmas. He bends over her. This is what he would like to say: “You see, my dear, no good thing can be born of sin. It was no use covering up your fault. Alas! I did what I could for the child. I treated him as my own. God shows us to-day that it was an error to try....” But at the first sentence he stops. No doubt she understands these words, heavy with meaning as they are; they have struck home to her heart, for though she had stopped crying some moments before, her sobs break out afresh, more violently than ever: then she bows herself, as though she were going to kneel before him, but he stoops over her and holds her up. What is it she is saying through her tears? He stoops his ear almost to her lips and hears: “You see.... You see.... Oh! why did you forgive me? Oh! I shouldn’t have come back.” He is almost obliged to divine her words. Then she stops. She too can say no more. How can she tell him that she feels imprisoned in this virtue which he exacts from her ... that she is stifling ... that it is not so much her fault that she regrets now, as having repented of it? Profitendieu raises himself. “My poor Marguerite,” he says with dignity and severity, “I am afraid you are a little stubborn to-night. It is late. We had better go to bed.” He helps her up, leads her to her room, puts his lips to her forehead, then returns to his study and flings himself into an arm-chair. It is a curious thing that his liver attack has subsided--but he feels shattered. He sits with his head in his hands, too sad to cry.... He does not hear a knock at the door, but at the noise the door makes in opening, he raises his head--his son Charles! “I came to say good-night to you.”