Mrs. Sassenay breathed more freely. She knew how fond her daughter was of Margaret Roquevillard. But as the sobs did not stop she asked gently: “Are you thinking of Lieutenant Hubert?” “Yes. He was nice ... we used to play tennis together. He was always the best player.” The cause of the girl’s grief did not lie in that quarter. “Poor Margaret!” she added, changing her subject half unconsciously. “I liked Maurice, who is in prison, better than Hubert. He’ll be acquitted, won’t he?” “I hope so, dear.” “An innocent man who is acquitted, or even one who is condemned--there’s something fine about it, isn’t there, mamma?” “Are you sure he’s innocent?” “Margaret’s brother? How can you ask it?” Mrs. Sassenay smiled at this assurance and indignation, which she had provoked on purpose. All the time she was petting and soothing her daughter, her memory was recalling a long-ago talk she had had with Mrs. Roquevillard on the subject of their children. “One day perhaps,” the saintly woman had said to her, “if Maurice is worthy of it, I will ask your child’s hand for him. She will be near you.” Maurice had not been worthy, but his prestige of other days was still potent over this too generous little girl. That was the danger. It must be looked out for. And while she promised herself to be careful, Jeanne’s mother thought in spite of herself of those other Roquevillards, the dead and the living; so deserving, and so sorely tried. The noise of the orchestra came up to the room half muffled. “Dry your eyes, Jeanne. Gently, so. A little powder. There. You’re looking very well this evening. Now let’s go back quickly to the drawing-room. People will notice our absence.” “That’s true, mamma, and I promised this waltz.” And growing suddenly serene again, the girl preceded her mother down the hall. At that very hour Raymond Bercy, completely upset by the death of his friend Hubert, was pacing the hundred steps opposite the Roquevillards’ house, to and fro. The roof of the castle, covered with snow, showed vaguely in the starlight. The tower of the archives and the turret seemed to watch like sentinels over the sleeping town. Through the four windows of the study which he knew so well a thin light filtered between the blinds. In there Margaret and her father were suffering together, struck once more to their very hearts. He longed to go in and join them, but he dared not. His broken engagement, his parents’ objections, what the world would think, all sorts of obscure and selfish motives, had held him back. But in the cold night, in the course of this walk which he kept up so late, he came to know his heart better, knew that sorrow and pity, more than joy, make love increase. IV THE COUNSEL OF THE SOIL