‘Will the world believe that it is so, Monsieur?’
‘If I maintain it, they will, Marie. The dissolute life your husband is now leading at Paris—his desperate play—the orgies nightly held at his hôtel, which, if report be true, eclipse all others of the present reign in debauchery, tend to prove that there was also deep blame attached to him. The repentance—sincere, as I hope and trust it is—of more than a year should disarm all future persecution.’
‘Antoine has been very cruel to me,’ continued the daughter. ‘I should like to see my children; they must be much grown and altered. It has appeared so long a time since they were taken away.’
Her voice faltered as she spoke. She covered her face with her handkerchief, and for a few seconds remained silent, as if weeping. There was not a finer actress on the stage than Marie d’Aubray.
‘Time will effect much, Marie,’ said her father, as he fondly passed his hand over her white shoulder, and drew her towards him. ‘Your husband’s anger will be less bitter against you; be satisfied at present in knowing that your children are well and happy.’
‘And I am forgotten,’ added the Marchioness sadly.
‘I need not say,’ continued M. d’Aubray, ‘that the greatest caution in your behaviour will be necessary on your return. The cause of all this misery, M. Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, has been liberated from the Bastille, and is once more free, at Paris. You must never speak to, or recognise him again.’
‘You shall be obeyed, Monsieur: too willingly,’ replied Marie.
‘Bien—you understand me,’ said M. d’Aubray. ‘I have to rise early to-morrow, and shall retire. When I ring, let Gervais bring up my supper to my room. I have still some writings to arrange.’
‘I will see to it, mon père,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘I shall remain up some time longer. I cannot sleep if I go to rest thus early, and those long watchful nights are so terrible.’