“Would you? O, I am helpless!”
“But not unless all else failed. To prevent one outrage by another! God would not love us any longer, Yolande. We must try all juster means first.”
Cartouche, wincing, ground his heel softly into the boards where he stood. The girl was weeping very hopelessly.
“You wring my heart,” said Saint-Péray, sobbing himself. “What am I to do? What think? I would pray for light before I act—pray for fortitude and reason. Precipitancy makes self-martyrs, Yolande. Our cause is better won by moderation.”
She turned from him. “Yolande!” he cried in agony. “You love me best?”
Cartouche uttered a very wicked oath under his breath. But the white lily was in her lover’s arms.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You are always right, dear Louis. Only tell me what I am to do.”
“Supposing you went now to your father, Yolande, and confessed the whole truth to him?”
“Alone, Louis?”
“Only for a little, dearest. I will follow when I have prayed for guidance. Would he know my name even?”