"You do not understand, monsieur; as you say, under a frivolous pretext, I was removed from Rambouillet to Paris, shut in a house in the Faubourg Saint Antoine, which spoke more clearly to my eyes than Gaston's fears had done. Then I thought myself lost—and that this feigned tenderness of a father concealed the wiles of a seducer. I had no friend but Gaston—I wrote to him—he came."
"Then," said the regent, filled with joy, "when you left that house it was to escape those wiles, not to follow your lover?"
"Oh, monsieur, if I had believed in that father whom I had seen but once, and then surrounded by mysteries, I swear to you that nothing would have led me from the path of duty."
"Oh, dear child!" cried the duke, with an accent which made Helene start.
"Then Gaston spoke to me of a person who could refuse him nothing—who would watch over me and be a father to me. He brought me here, saying he would return to me. I waited in vain for more than an hour, and at length, fearing some accident had happened to him, I asked for you." The regent's brow became clouded.
"Thus," said he, "it was Gaston's influence that turned you from your duty—his fears aroused yours?"
"Yes; he suspected the mystery which encircled me, and feared that it concealed some fatal project."
"But he must have given you some proof to persuade you."
"What proof was needed in that abominable house? Would a father have placed his daughter in such a habitation?"
"Yes, yes," murmured the regent, "he was wrong; but confess that without the chevalier's suggestions, you, in the innocence of your soul, would have had no suspicion."