She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; ‘Ave Maria, be with me and mine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruel men. Have thou pity on the fatherless!’
Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veronique entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same moment began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten her dress.
‘Make haste, Veronique. A dress of thine—-’
‘All is known, then!’ cried Veronique, throwing up her arms.
‘No, but he is coming—Narcisse—to marry me at once—Marde-Gras—-’
‘Et quoi? Madame has but to speak the word, and it is impossible.’
‘And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere speaking that word. I asked her, Veronique! She would have vengeance on the most guiltless—the most guiltless—do you hear?—of the Norman house. Never, never shall she have the chance! Come, thy striped petticoat!’
‘But, oh! what will Madame do? Where would she go? Oh! it is impossible.’
‘First to thy father’s. Yes, I know. He has once called it a madness to think of rallying my vassals to protect their lady. That was when he heard of it from thee—thou faint of heart—and thy mother. I shall speak to him in person now. Make haste, I tell thee, girl. I must be out of this place before I am watched or guarded,’ she added breathlessly. ‘I feel as if each moment I lost might have death upon it;’ and she looked about her like a startled deer.
‘To my father’s. Ah! there it is not so ill! But the twilights, the length of way,’ sobbed Veronique, in grievous distress and perplexity. ‘Oh! Madame, I cannot see you go. The Mother Abbess is good. She must have pity. Oh, trust to her!’