“I will be his shadow, Martha.”
“But not for him to know. I dread the time terribly. I think there is often no such fiend as a good man wronged through his goodness. And there has been an evil one whispering in his ear, I am sure.”
“An evil one?”
“M. Gaston, the old lord’s black whelp. He brought him home that day—straight from hearing the disastrous news. He has been with him once or twice since. Jacques, I should not be surprised—I should not be surprised, I say, if that devil were urging him to dare all and abduct—her up there.”
“Would you not? I think I wish I could believe it.”
“O, hush! are you all fiends? This Cartouche, they say, is ruined in the marriage. He may have his reasons—but you!”
“Well, good-bye, Martha. I will watch him.”
“That is right; to save him from himself—such a self, my God, as he may come to be! Good-bye, Jacques.”
She went on her way home. It was a chill, oppressive day for the season, with threat of cold storm in the air. Few people were abroad. As she neared her door, she noticed that a man was keeping pace with her. He reached the house as she did, and accosted her as she was lifting the latch. She recognised him for the Dr Bonito whom her father had supplanted at the Château, and her heart gave a little heave.
“Whom do you seek, monsieur?” she said, standing with her back to the door as if to bar his passage. She had not in her heart approved her father’s promotion to that distinction; but to any outer criticism of it she was ready to ruffle like a mother hen at a cat.