“You can have the pony carriage, father,” interposed she.
“He starts at everything by night—don't trust the pony,” said Jekyl.
“Well, then, be carried in my chair, father.”
“Be it so,—be it so,” muttered he. “I yield myself to anything,—'sicut passer sub tecto,'—I have no will of my own.”
“Go along with him, my Lord,” whispered D'Esmonde: “the opportunity will be a good one to see the young officer. While the father talks with the sick man, you can converse with the friend. See in what frame of mind he is.”
“Does he speak French? for I am but an indifferent German,” said Norwood.
“Yes, French will do,” said D'Esmonde, who, after a moment's hesitation as to whether he should reveal the secret of Frank's country, seemed to decide on still reserving the knowledge.
“But this could be better done to-morrow,” said Norwood.
“To-morrow will be too late,” whispered D'Esmonde. “Go now; you shall know my reasons at your return.”
Norwood took little heed of the canonico's attempts at conversation as they went along. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. The moment of open revolt was drawing nigh, and now came doubts of D'Esmonde's sincerity and good faith. It was true that many of the priests were disposed to the wildest theories of democracy,—they were men of more than ordinary capacity, with far less than the ordinary share of worldly advantages. D'Esmonde, however, was not one of these; there was no limit to which his ambition might not reasonably aspire,—no dignity in his Church above his legitimate hopes. What benefit could accrue to him from a great political convulsion? “He'll not be nearer to the Popedom when the cannon are shaking the Vatican!” Such were the puzzling considerations that worked within him as he drew near the boat-house.