"Andre, you must!"
There was in this insistence and, still more, in the frenzied
manner of it, something so unreasonable that Andre could not fail
to assume that some dark and mysterious motive lay behind it.
"I must?" he echoed. "Why must I? Your reasons, monsieur?"
"Andre, my reasons are overwhelming."
"Pray allow me to be the judge of that." Andre-Louis' manner was
almost peremptory.
The demand seemed to reduce M. de Kercadiou to despair. He paced
the room, his hands tight-clasped behind him, his brow wrinkled.
At last he came to stand before his godson.
"Can't you take my word for it that these reasons exist?" he cried
in anguish.
"In such a matter as this - a matter that may involve my neck? Oh,
monsieur, is that reasonable?"
"I violate my word of honour, my oath, if I tell you." M. de
Kercadiou turned away, wringing his hands, his condition visibly
piteous; then turned again to Andre. "But in this extremity, in
this desperate extremity, and since you so ungenerously insist, I
shall have to tell you.
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