“Why?” asked Jeanne. “Oh, because Hubert, too, has thought of us.” “Hubert?” “Yes. He knew he was going to die. In the first part of his letter he tries to deceive us, to cheer us up. And then--and then he writes--there, wait a moment. God help me! I can’t see any more. He writes: ‘If, however, I must stay here always, I offer my life in sacrifice for the honour of our name, for Maurice’s salvation....’ You see, he gives me my orders. I must go.” Jeanne burst into tears. Already Margaret, in an uplifted mood, was putting on her hat and veil. “I am sure father needs this letter. I can’t hesitate about it.” Some mysterious connivance seemed at work in the family, between the living and the dead, something that mysteriously made them work together and united them across space and time. “I’ll go with you,” said her friend, as resolute as she. “Yes, come,” said Margaret. “I shall be braver if you come with me.” And the two girls hurried out, passing along by the castle, its glowing walls warm in the winter sunshine; they took a short route through little streets, and beyond the market reached the court-house in a few minutes. “The court-room, sir?” asked Margaret humbly of the doorkeeper. “There, madame, on the ground floor. But the hall is full. You can’t get in.” “But we must go in,” Jeanne Sassenay interrupted, with great assurance. “We have a letter, a very important one, to give to the lawyer for the defence, A very important document.” “Impossible, ladies. The argument is going on. It’s too late. Who are you?” The sister of the accused raised her veil. “Miss Roquevillard.” “Oh, very good. Follow me.” Impressed by this name, he led them as far as the door reserved for the use of witnesses. “You can just open the door, miss. The lawyer’s bench will be before you, a little to the left. Afterwards you can go out that way, or maybe you can find a seat.” And being a prudent and timid functionary, he added, as he left the two girls: “But be sure and don’t say it was me who let you in.” Margaret, who went first, put her hand on the latch. She could hear the voice of some one speaking on the other side. It was not her father’s voice. Behind this door, the destiny of her brother, Maurice, the fate of all the Roquevillards, was running its course at this hour. On behalf of Hubert she was bringing up the last reserves. VIII THE VOICE OF THE DEAD THE girls entered. It was a little more than half-past two o’clock: Mr. Porterieux, venomous and insolent, was finishing his argument. In the galleries and on the floor the public was crowded; people of fashion and from the lower ranks confused together, eager to seize upon the warm quarry of which this lawyer, like an expert and cruel hunter, was laying bare for them the palpitating heart. People noticed the presence of the young girls, who hesitated to come further forward, once inside the door.