The fate of Hubert was still a source of some anxiety to them. The last letter from the Soudan had brought news that the young officer was down with fever, ill in an isolated cabin, without a doctor. He made light himself of this unlucky piece of work, not taking it seriously, but a certain note of detachment in his letter, contrasted with a more than ordinarily affectionate way of putting his good-byes, struck both father and sister, and deeply affected them. They were silent, their hearts shaken. Margaret lighted the lamp, to chase away the darkness that was so full of evil omens. As she drew the curtains together some one knocked at the door. “It’s they,” said Mr. Roquevillard. And the girl had just time to disappear through the door that led into the apartment as her father went forward to receive his visitors. Mr. Hamel came in first, followed by Mr. Battard. The president of the benchers enjoyed a respect and esteem at the bar in Chambéry which were the natural deserts of great age, great knowledge of the law and a dignified private life. He was a man of seventy-five, so thin that he rattled round in his threadbare frock-coat, a garment which he used to declare obstinately would last as long as he did. In winter time he draped himself in an antiquated overcoat, never bothering to put his arms through the sleeves. Above his shaven face a crown of white hair stood out in disorder, and his colourless cheeks were almost transparently thin. His tall figure was bent like those too slender poplars that are twisted by the wind, but his character was upright and unbroken. Nothing could ever have swerved him from the lines of conduct which the traditions of his family, in the best sense of the word, and his firm convictions had laid down for him at an early age. Cold and distant in bearing, a man of few words, he showed as much rigidity in his principles as proud courtesy in the relations of his daily life, displaying his high-mindedness as much in the ordinary circumstances as in the more important matters of existence. Good fortune and bad he had met with an even temper. Yet he had known more of bad fortune than of good in his later years, at the end of his life’s journey, when a man deserves repose. The unfortunate speculations of a son had ruined him, but he had set himself again quite simply to the task of gaining his daily bread. Rarely appearing in court, he was the counsellor most sought for in delicate matters by those who expected what was equitable and right. One seldom saw him outside of his office, a poor and shabby room, where one went with special cases for arbitrage and settlement as to a sovereign judge. When he left his office it was always in the evening, to walk rapidly to church, his air chilly and hurried, indifferent to the world about him, listening only to the voice of God, whose summons he waited for with patience and resignation.