“Perfectly so.”
“And for this service, are you also ready to render us one in return?” said he, peering at me beneath his eyelashes.
“If it involve the good faith I once swore to preserve towards the Emperor Napoleon, I refuse it at once. On such a condition, I cannot accept your aid.”
“And does your heart still linger where your pride has been so insulted?”
“It does, it does; to be his soldier once more, I would submit to everything but dishonor.”
“In that case,” said he, smiling good-naturedly, “my conscience is a clear one; and I may forward your escape with the satisfying reflection that I have diminished the enemies of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth by one most inveterate follower of Napoleon. I shall ask no conditions of you. When are you ready?”
“To-day,—now.”
“Let me see; to-morrow will be the 8th,—to-morrow will do. I will write about it at once. Meanwhile, it is as well you should not drop any hint of your intended departure, except to Madame de Langeac, whose secrecy may be relied on.”
“May I ask,” said I, “if you run any risk in thus befriending me? It is an office, believe me, of little promise.”
“None whatever. Rarely a month passes over without some one or other leaving this for England. The intercourse between Rome and Ireland is uninterrupted, and has been so during the hottest period of the war.”