VITHE DEFENDER
MR. ROQUEVILLARD burst into his office like a whirlwind, and his two colleagues rose from their discussion immediately and came forward to meet him. They could not conceal their surprise on finding, instead of a man struck down by despair over the death of his oldest son, the Roquevillard of other times, the man so redoubtable at the bar, to whom one went with difficult and stirring cases, on whose clear judgment and firm conclusions one could always depend. Here again was the man whose dominating character one chafed under sometimes as one quailed before his piercing glance.
“I have made you wait,” he said easily, dispensing with excuses.
In his presence, Mr. Hamel, with his crown of white hair, his delicate features, and the slightly affected and distinguished air that composed his venerable whole, and Mr. Battard, with his spreading beard, his air of assuming everywhere the first rank, seemed, nevertheless, both to recognise their leader; one with good will, the other grudgingly. All assumptions of superiority fell away before these other and more incontestable tokens.
“My good friend,” murmured the elder man, his hand stretched out.
“My dear colleague,” was the formula of the younger.
They conveyed their condolences to him, one cordially and with emotion, the other in trite phrases.
“Yes,” replied their host, stopping them with a motion of his hand, “I have only one son left. That one I am going to save. I must save him; and here’s the plan I have decided on.”
This last consultation had been called by the three lawyers to check up some definite plan of defence together, and lo, the opinion of a single one was prevailing in advance, without other consultation.
“Ah!” exclaimed the president, subdued by so much confidence and firmness.
“Decided?” repeated Mr. Battard with an air of doubt, divided between respect for his friend’s mourning and a sense of his own importance.
Mr. Roquevillard disclosed his idea promptly, in few words; he was very quiet, and his voice had grown young again.
“You two will assist me, both of you. But I shall make the argument myself,” he said.
“You!”
“You!”
Astonishment and irritation were reflected in the two exclamations. Mr. Hamel looked at his old companion in arms with his colourless eyes, the flame of life now no more than a trembling light in them, though it was still so pure; while the jury lawyer, unpleasantly affected by his dismissal from a case that would have given him a sensational chance for resounding argument, forgot the circumstances of the trial, and the misfortunes of the temporarily beaten family, and could think only of the opportunity for personal success that was ruthlessly snatched from him.
“Yes, I,” said Mr. Roquevillard. “I shall reclaim my son so energetically that they’ll give him back to me. They can’t refuse to give a father back his son.”
Having thus dictated his orders for the combat, he exerted himself next to bring round his allies to his way of thinking, for he could, if he liked, modify his imperious manner, and was not without skill in the art of leading men. He was certain of the assistance of the president, and so he turned his attention specially to Mr. Battard, who might escape him.
“You will be there, both of you, please. I count on you. If I ask to take your place, Battard, it isn’t because I rank my skill above yours. But there are certain things which it is my sad privilege alone to explain to the jury.”
“What things?”
“That’s my secret. You’ll hear it all to-morrow. I believe I can convince the jury of my son’s innocence without mentioning the name of Mrs. Frasne.”
“By making reparation for the injury?”
“No, by direct argument.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ll see to-morrow. However, if you detect any weakening in my voice or argument, if my speech makes you fear a failure, you must tell me. I submit myself entirely to your great experience in jury trials. You have wonderful presence of mind. These judges’ faces are an open book to you. You know the brief as well as I, or better than I do. You were ready with it. You can supplement my efforts. I shall feel myself strong, thus supported. Will you be so kind?”
The dismissed lawyer stroked his beard carefully, and hid his vexation beneath an air of indifference.
“My dear brother, what is the use?” he said. “My cooperation would be useless to you. You don’t really need anybody but yourself. You’re assuming without hesitation the highest and most difficult responsibilities. Permit me to consider my mission terminated.”
The two lawyers, during this interchange, had remained standing. Mr. Hamel, seated by the chimney corner, followed them with somewhat troubled eyes, taking no part in their discussion. Mr. Roquevillard moved a step nearer to his younger colleague, and put his hand affectionately on his shoulder.
“I know that I’m asking a great favour of you, Battard. In claiming the honour of defending my son myself, I want you to understand that it’s my name I count upon defending. I don’t undervalue the help your worth and competence and eloquence would have been to me. But in my place you would do the same as I. Give me this token of your friendship and disinterestedness, as well as your esteem. In that way you’ll show me that you take what I’m saying in good faith, I beg you.”
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.
“In my capacity as president of the benchers, my dear brother, I hasten to request your assistance. I understand your hesitations. In any other circumstances I should understand your refusal. Mr. Roquevillard may have particular reasons for desiring to make the argument for his son, even though generally the case of defending one’s own is confided to others. But he is tried and tired with the weight of his misfortunes, and he runs the risk of presuming too much upon his force of will. You must be on hand, too. This is the way things look to me, and I insist upon it.”
The moment duty instead of flattery was invoked, authority instead of persuasion, the jury lawyer definitely threw aside his scruples. All his self-assurance came back to him, and he thrust the old man aside almost rudely.
“No, no; it’s impossible. I offered my complete assistance. It must be that or nothing. The plans of the defence have been changed without my being consulted. A line of argument that seems to be decisive is being hidden from me. In these conditions the only thing I can do is to retire from the case, and I retire.”
His hardened face showed only wounded pride. He turned toward Mr. Roquevillard, and added with laborious condescension:
“Do you want the notes to my argument? They will save you some trouble. They are at your service.”
“My dear colleague and friend, think it over further. Don’t leave us in the midst of battle.”
“My resolution is taken,” repeated Mr. Battard.
“Absolutely?”
“Absolutely.”
Throughout this last attempt on Mr. Hamel’s part, Mr. Roquevillard had maintained that same air of pride and tranquillity which just now had so disconcerted his two visitors. The president, more concerned than he over the consequences of this defection, still sought, in spite of his natural antipathy for Mr. Battard, to retain his help.
“I beg you not to deprive us of your aid,” he said.
“I am very sorry, indeed, to disappoint you, believe me,” answered Battard.
“Then,” said the father of the accused, deliberately and without any show of emotion, “I’ll ask you for the papers in the case. I want especially the written report of the police commissioner, the abstract of the deposition, the terms of the arrest for defalcation.”
This disinvestiture completed the offence to Mr. Battard’s pride. He did not know how to yield to entreaties, but by a very human contradiction neither did he resign himself gracefully to having people supersede him. He took leave of his two colleagues with badly disguised irritation. Outside the office, on the steps of the entrance door, his host got hold of his hand almost by force, and shook it, thanking him warmly for having consented to efface himself. But in this friendly demonstration Mr. Battard only saw the last affront of all, and he ran about town injuring the Roquevillards’ cause in the public mind by telling people of the father’s mental aberration, and the probable conviction of the son to-morrow.
Mr. Hamel could not dissemble his sadness at the departure; his doubts and anxiety, which his age made more grievous, appeared plainly. Was it not very imprudent to dismiss wilfully this pastmaster of the assizes? Were they not only too likely to pay for this imprudence? Why make this eleventh-hour change, and stir up trouble and disorganisation in their camp? He formulated these criticisms in a firm and courteous vein, but plainly they were superfluous. He put an end to them, and added on a melancholy note:
“My friend, you came in just now with your face illuminated, as if with some inner inspiration. I knew by looking at you that you would not listen to any one. Where had you been?”
“To La Vigie,” replied Mr. Roquevillard, who had borne the old man’s reproaches respectfully. “The dead spoke to me there. They did not want a charlatan to weigh their reputation against the faults of one descendant.”
“The dead?”
“Yes, my dead. The dead who founded my race, the dead who have maintained it. They shall be the guerdon of our house in to-morrow’s trial. From the first of my name, down to my firstborn Hubert, they have sacrificed so much in the common good; would you have their sacrifices not counted?”
Mr. Hamel reflected, then rose. “I believe in the law of reversion, and I understand. But will the jurors?”
“Indeed they must,” replied his host, with such assurance that the old man’s doubts were stilled by it.
“Something is working out in you,” he said, “and it acts on those you talk with and convinces them. Yes, your defence of your son will be better than that of any other advocate. You have the will and the authority. It will be an honour for me to assist you to-morrow. Good-bye. I will go now and let you work.”
He draped his shabby overcoat over his thin shoulders, and with a suddenly furtive air made for the door, his host following him.
“Margaret!” called Mr. Roquevillard, after having let the president out.
The girl was waiting in the next room for the moment when her father should be ready for her, and appeared at once.
“Here I am.”
“Come in. I want to talk with you.”
He led her into his study and questioned her rapidly.
“You went to see Maurice in prison?”
“Yes, father; we cried together.”
“Cried? Yes, my heart is broken, too. Yet I don’t cry. To-morrow night I shall be free to weep my fill; till then I shall not shed a tear.”
Margaret was a little frightened by the uplifted look that lightened and rejuvenated the dear face, on which she had seen so many disasters leave their mark; but she profited by it promptly to complete her work of reconciliation.
“Father, Maurice longs for his place again in your heart.”
“He has never lost it.”
“I knew it. Do you forgive him?”
“I forgave him a long time ago.”
“Ah!”
“The evening he came back, little girl. Did you doubt your father?”
“Oh, no, father. But why not say so to him?”
“He hasn’t asked me to.”
“He does ask you, though. He wants you to handle his defence on your own lines, without restrictions. He knows you will be careful of his honour.”
“Without restriction? It’s too late now.”
“Why too late?”
“Because I have dismissed Mr. Battard, his advocate.”
“Who will defend him?”
“I.”
“Ah,” said Margaret, throwing herself into his arms, “I had given up hope of that. I have always wanted it.”
And her father, already preoccupied as he was with his new and pressing task, folded her to his breast. “You have always had faith in me, little girl. Go fetch me all the family record books now, even the oldest ones.”
While she was gone there was delivered to him the brief sent back by Mr. Battard, according to his promise. He opened it and turned over the leaves, glancing at the clock as he did so.
“Almost six. Shall I have the time?”
And he reflected sadly on the long task ahead of him with the commonplace books. There were so many that Margaret had to make several journeys to get them all.
“Here they all are,” said the girl. “There are a great many of them, and some quite old ones.”
Five hundred years of labour and good repute were shut up within their leaves. Last of all she handed her father a memorandum book less voluminous than the others.
“In this one,” she explained, blushing a little, “I have summed up myself the principal features of our history, especially the services that have been rendered to our country. It’s a kind of abridgment in less intimate terms.”
“You guessed that we should need it some day?”
“No, father, I wrote it last winter, in revolt against the harsh judgments that were made on us. I read bits of it to mamma, while she was in bed, and she approved of it.”
“And all the time you were preparing a defence for Maurice.”
“With that, father?”
“Yes. Now, let me get to work.”
Then as she was going away he called her back.
“Margaret, I’ve something else to tell you.”
She came back to him quickly. He said nothing at first, but looked her all over with that father’s look that gives love instead of taking it, protects instead of being covetous; he was noticing not only her pallor, but the calmness of her features and the new sweet serenity of their expression.
“I passed Raymond Bercy as I came in, little girl. He was down there by the carriage entrance, standing perfectly still, and I could see that he was much moved and preoccupied. He bowed to me, and made a step toward me, as if to speak to me, but it was too late. I had already passed him.”
Margaret did not seem at all impressed by this news, and answered:
“He had been here, and was just going away, father.”
“I see. And what did he want?”
“He wanted to be with you to-morrow at the trial, and help you.”
“What an idea! In what way could he help?”
“As a son.”
“As a son? Then he had made a proposal to you?”
“Yes, father.”
“And you were not going to tell me about it? God has taken pity on us. Our excess of misfortune has touched Him. Raymond’s conduct is very fine. He hasn’t waited for us to be publicly cleared of all disgrace before he came to us. And what did you say to him?”
“I refused him.”
Mr. Roquevillard gave an astonished movement and drew the girl nearer to him, looking deep into her great clear eyes.
“Refused him? Why? But I can guess: you were thinking of me. You are sacrificing yourself for your father. Your father won’t accept the sacrifice, sweetheart. I have told you often that parents must subordinate their lives to their children’s: that’s the natural order, not the contrary.”
“Father,” she murmured, “I love you so well. You know it. However, you deceive yourself, I assure you.”
“It was not for me you refused him?”
“No, father.”
A pure flame radiated from her eyes over all her colourless face, and he understood his daughter’s soul. Had he not once already had to read these signs? God was taking his children from him one by one. What a fever of renunciation and self-immolation stirred and burned in them! Must there not be in these successive sacrifices enough to furnish the redemption of the culprit, Maurice? He recalled one summer morning, in the glaring light on the docks at Marseilles, when he had watched the steamer sail away for China with Felicie on board. And he pressed Margaret closer to his trembling heart.
“You, too,” he murmured simply.
She clasped her arms around his neck, and whispered to him, quite low, with a kiss:
“Not yet, father.”
“After I am gone?”
“Yes.”
He held her a moment closer against him, as he had done when she was a little girl in the old days and he had put protecting arms about her. He loved the feeling that she was his yet, but hesitated to accept the delay his daughter’s love imposed on her. Facing the glass in his cabinet, he could see the image of the group they formed. With one stroke it showed the changes that had been wrought in him within one year’s time.
“To-morrow,” he reflected, “I shall have saved Maurice, and my task will be finished. It won’t be long after that. I shan’t make old bones.”
Bending over the clear face, he pressed his lips there, as a sign of his acceptance. Then, coming back again to what was uppermost in his mind, he banished tenderness, and made his arrangements for the battle.
“Have dinner at eight,” he ordered. “I’ve almost two hours ahead of me, time to refresh myself on the details of this brief, which I know pretty well already. I’ll go to bed at nine, and get up at three in the morning. From three to nine, before the opening of court, I’ll get my argument in hand.”
“Very well, father. There’s a letter from Lyons from Germaine. Her heart is with us.”
“You can read it to me at dinner,” he said.
“Charles will be here to-morrow on the one-o’clock train. He can’t come sooner.”
“I expected him.”
“I’ll leave you now, father.”
As the door shut upon her, he seized eagerly a photograph of Hubert that stood on the table, and gazed long at the features of his firstborn.
“Forgive me, Hubert,” he said deep down in his heart, “I’m thinking only of your brother now. You must not think that I’ve forgotten you. You see, I am not free. To-morrow I’ll call to you and speak to you and weep for you. To-morrow I shall be yours. This evening I belong to all our race.”
Gently he set the picture down again. And putting aside his sorrow for the immediate necessities of the present, he began his work.