"I believe nothing," rejoined M. de Claviers, "except that on certain roads one does not stop."--Then, to prove that he proposed to be just, even in the execution of his sentence upon his rebellious son: "But as you haven't yet reached that point, and as you may still have some scruples, considering that I spoke to you about my burdens,--let me tell you that my difficulties are all at an end, thanks to the devotion of a friend. Charles Jaubourg had none but distant relations, of whom he had reason to complain. He has left me his whole fortune by his will. I came to tell you this news also," he added with a sigh, "and to read you the provisions of the will. Nothing could be more lofty in sentiment, more delicately expressed. I have accepted the legacy, in the first place, because it's absolutely honest money: Charles's father was probity itself; secondly, because I do not injure any one--his cousins are all rich and he never saw them; and finally because I loved him as much as he loved me. One can count the attachments in life that do not deceive one.--However I need not tell you that, without this legacy, your fortune was intact. I will order Métivier to communicate with you about the settlement. As for me, when the day comes that you desire to recover a father, you know the conditions.--Adieu." Landri had listened with, an indescribable mixture of fear and disgust--fear of betraying his excessive emotion, disgust at the infamy of which he was the helpless witness. This then was the ghastly means devised by Jaubourg to leave his whole fortune to his son! And should he, the son, permit that money to be accepted thus, with such touching and confiding gratitude, by that nobleman, so proud and of such magnificent moral integrity? If, by his silence concerning what he knew, he should make himself an accomplice in that final act of treachery, would he not cap the climax of the outrage by his false generosity? The cry of protest was on his lips, and he did not utter it. There was something more atrocious than the failure to warn that honorable and terribly abused man, and that was for his wife's child to tell him what that wife had been. M. de Claviers had walked to the door. He seemed to await a word, a gesture, a glance; and Landri stood silent, with downcast eyes. The marquis himself started to turn back. Then, in face of the young man's obstinate immobility, his dense eyebrows contracted, his eyes became stern. He repeated:-- "Adieu. Do you understand that I am bidding you adieu?" "Adieu," said Landri, without raising his eyes, while the dispenser of justice, with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, left the room to avoid giving way to the fresh wave of indignation that swept over his great heart.