Mr. Battard kept running his nervous fingers through his fine beard. He was weighing the pros and cons, swayed in turn by fraternal and professional traditions, and by a wounded vanity that ill accommodated itself to second place. He had almost imposed his assistance and services on the defence. He counted, if not on his client’s being saved, at least on a personal triumph for himself: the court-room would be filled to overflowing, chiefly with ladies, who would be keen to hear him, no doubt. Instead of beholding him in his glory, holding forth as a leader, this select public would find him seated like a secretary at Roquevillard’s side, subservient to that dangerous rival who had dealt him so many hard legal knocks in the past. Was it becoming in him to accept so humiliating a position? On the other hand, his presence would not be useless in the trial. The prisoner’s father had probably been seized by some fine sudden zeal, had deluded himself probably with some sudden turn of argument that fascinated him. He dared not tell the secret of it, and perhaps he had conceived it under the influence of a grief that was beginning to affect his moral and intellectual vigour. This fictitious ardour that animated him might fall flat at any moment, without any warning, and be followed by the most lamentable depression. How could this man, crushed as he was by ruinous ill luck, deprived so tragically of his eldest son only last night, bear all the burden of defending his last child from disgrace and conviction? How could he expect or hope to make the vigorous, the violent effort demanded by such an argument, and after so short a preparation? It wasn’t probable that he could. This new decision must be explained as coming from some mystic excitement arising from his sorrow. He, Battard, must hold himself in readiness to take up the case at the last moment. Wisdom counselled it. The interests of the defence, which, with a lawyer, must supersede all others, especially all thoughts of self, showed what conduct he must follow, beyond any question. But the strange confidence which Roquevillard showed in his face halted these generous fancies. “No,” explained Mr. Battard, “I can’t oblige you in this way. I’m sorry for it. Either I assume and keep the entire responsibility of the argument, or I retire from the case altogether.” “It’s my son’s case. It’s right that I should not give up his defence.” Mr. Hamel rose from his armchair, and intervened opportunely.