"I want nothing of the Prince d'Avranche but his weight and power in a
cause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. I
fasten my eyes on France alone: I fight for the throne of Louis, not for
the duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim for all of me,
if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war."

The Duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot into
Detricand's mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after all
belong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added with
deliberation:

"If alliance must still be kept with this evil government of France,
then be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a duchy so
discredited. To meet that peril the Duc de Bercy will do well to consult
his new kinsman--Philip d'Avranche."

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. The old nobleman's
look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upper
lip was arrested in a sort of snarl, the fingers, half-closed, were
hooked like talons, and the whole man was a picture of surprise, fury,
and injured pride. The Duc de Bercy to be harangued to his duty,
scathed, measured, disapproved, and counselled, by a stripling
Vaufontaine--it was monstrous.

It had the bitterness of aloes also, for in his own heart he knew that
Detricand spoke truth. The fearless appeal had roused him, for a moment
at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, all but hopeless,
cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. He
felt now the smarting anger, the outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who,