“Who told her?”
“She forbade me to say.... A canon, who was sent by a cardinal, with his card——”
Arnica understood nothing of public affairs and Madame de Saint-Prix’s story had left but a confused impression on her. The words “captivity” and “imprisonment” conjured up before her eyes dark and semi-romantic images; the word “crusade” thrilled her unspeakably, and when, at last, Amédée’s disbelief wavered and he talked of setting out at once, she suddenly saw him on horseback, in a helmet and breastplate.... As for him, he had begun by now to pace up and down the room.
“In the first place,” he said, “it’s no use talking about money—we haven’t got any. And do you think I could be satisfied with merely giving money? Do you think I should be able to sleep in peace merely because I had sacrificed a few bank-notes?... Why, my dear, if this is true that you’ve been telling me, it’s an appalling thing and we mustn’t rest till we’ve done something. Appalling, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand, appalling!... But all the same, do explain why.”
“Oh, if now I’ve got to explain!” and Amédée raised discouraged arms to Heaven.
“No, no,” he went on, “this isn’t an occasion for giving money; it’s oneself that one must give. I’ll consult Blafaphas; we’ll see what he says.”
“Valentine de Saint-Prix made me promise not to tell anyone,” put in Arnica, timidly.
“Blafaphas isn’t anyone; and we’ll impress on him that he must keep it strictly to himself.”
Then, turning towards her, he implored pathetically: