"
He lowered his head despondently, and in a tone of profound
discouragement, he replied: "But what can I do? How can I escape
from the web which has been woven around me with such fiendish
cunning? If I had possessed my usual presence of mind at the
moment of the accusation, I might have defended and justified
myself, perhaps. But now the misfortune is irreparable. How can
I unmask the traitor, and what proofs of his guilt can I cast in
his face?"
"All the same, you ought not to yield without a struggle,"
interrupted Madame Ferailleur, sternly. "It is wrong to abandon a
task because it is difficult; it must be accepted, and, even if
one perish in the struggle, there is, at least, the satisfaction
of feeling that one has not failed in duty."
"But, mother----"
"I must not keep the truth from you, Pascal! What! are you lacking
in energy? Come, my son, rise and raise your head. I shall not
let you fight alone. I will fight with you."
Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother's hands
and pressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His
overstrained nerves relaxed under the soothing influence of
maternal tenderness and devotion. Reason, too, had regained her
ascendency. His mother's noble words found an echo in his own
heart, and he now looked upon suicide as an act of madness and
cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory was assured,
but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in her
plans.
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