“Let’s get to the point, Monsieur l’abbé.”
“The Cardinal assured me, then, that I might have perfect confidence in your discretion—the discretion of the confessional, if I may say so....”
“Excuse me, Monsieur l’abbé, but if the secret is one with which the Cardinal is acquainted—a secret of such importance—how is it that he has not told me of it himself?”
The abbé’s smile alone would have sufficed to show the Countess the futility of her question.
“In a letter! But, my dear Madam, the post nowadays opens all cardinals’ letters.”
“He might have confided one to you.”
“Yes, Madam, but who knows what may happen to a paper, with the surveillance to which we are subjected? More than that—the Cardinal prefers to ignore what I am about to tell you—to have nothing to do with it.... Ah! Madam, at the last moment my courage fails me and I can hardly....”
“Monsieur l’abbé, as you are a stranger to me; I cannot feel offended that your confidence in me is no greater,” said the Countess very gently, turning her head aside and letting her lorgnette fall. “I have the utmost respect for the secrets which are confided to me. God knows I have never betrayed the smallest. But I have never been a person to solicit confidences.”
She made a slight movement as though to rise; the abbé stretched out his hand toward her.
“You will excuse me, Madame la comtesse, when you condescend to reflect that you are the first woman to have been judged worthy by the persons who have entrusted me with the fearful task of enlightening you—the first, I say, worthy to hear and keep this secret. I am alarmed, I confess, when I consider that this revelation is of a nature to weigh heavily—crushingly—on a woman’s intelligence.”