The lawyer, his portfolio under his arm, went on his way home. He walked briskly, with his always youthful tread, holding his head high, according to his habit, but his face was very pale. Under the Porticoes, that resort for loungers, he came across friends, who turned aside, while passersby stared at him insistently and mockingly. He perceived that Frasne’s clerks were already hawking the shame of the Roquevillards about the town. The Roquevillards: it was the first failing, for centuries, of any of the race. It must have been watched for, that it should be spread with so much spite. What base envy the pride in their name stirred up! The weakness of one member undid a whole past of energy and honour, a past that had furnished such manly examples for so many years. Did not those who exulted in it understand that this ruin reached them, too? He straightened himself up and walked more slowly. No one now could look him in the eye. Stiffening with contempt, setting his face to the storm, he reflected: “Dogs, bark and keep away from me. Don’t come nearer. As long as I’m alive I shall protect my own. I’ll shield them with all my power. And you shall not see me suffer.” Outside his door he was accosted by the Viscount de la Mortellerie, his country neighbour. Must he submit already to condolences and sympathy? Yet this eccentric, in hunting him out, showed himself the most human of all. The old nobleman pointed out the castle, bathed in the evening light. “At the reception of the Emperor Sigismund in 1416,” he confided mysteriously, “the Duke Amedeus VIII gave a banquet in the grand hall there. It was prepared by Jean de Belleville, the inventor of Savoy cakes. The meats were gilded and covered with ornaments and streamers bearing the arms of the guests, and each one received the dishes that were meant for him in single, double or triple portions, according to his rank. I love the distinction, don’t you? That we should eat, not according to our appetite, but our importance.” “One portion would do for me,” replied Mr. Roquevillard, shaking off his anger. He could not, himself, beguile the present with these memories of the past. He disappeared beneath the archway, mounted the stairs, and reached his study, avoiding the room where his wife, as always, kept her bed. But she heard him pass and sent for him, hoping that he might give her some news of her son. He found her alone, sitting up in bed, in the falling shadows. “Margaret has gone out,” she murmured; and scarcely daring to frame her question, she added: “You know nothing of Maurice?” “No, nothing. For a long time doubtless we shall know nothing.” “How hard your voice is, Francis,” replied the invalid. “This woman has bewitched him, you see, the poor boy.” “Feebleness is one kind of guiltiness.”