“But I know it, Father,” came the sad voice. “Is not that enough?”
She had heard some rumour, of course. How to convey to her its falsity without betraying what he knew as fact—and without undue shock to her?
“I suppose, my daughter,” he said gently, “that you have had some private information. Is it—forgive me—is it reliable?”
Valentine caught her breath. “Only too much so, I fear.” And then a light broke upon her. “Surely, Father, as you were sent from the Marquis de Kersaint about this business, and he knew of the Duc’s death, you know it, too? Or did he keep you in ignorance before he sent you to Mirabel?”
“What!” exclaimed M. Chassin, thinking he had not heard aright through the grille. “What did you say, my child? M. de Kersaint knew that the Duc was dead? Who told you that?”
His astonishment set a mad hope tearing at Valentine’s heart. “M. de Brencourt,” she answered. “Was he wrong, then?”
But M. Chassin had flung himself out of the confessional, his stole in his hand. “M. de Brencourt!” he exclaimed. Once out he seemed on the verge of some expression better befitting his late employment as gardener or plotter than his present as priest. “M. de Brencourt told you—my child, do not stay kneeling there . . . M. de Brencourt . . . here, sit on this chair and let me hear more of this extraordinary . . . misunderstanding!—May I know this great matter—your identity—so long as to speak of it a little now?”
His face was mottled with emotions. Valentine, her eyes fixed on him, had already risen from her knees and did sink down on the chair he indicated. In front of her the candles burnt round the pall and on the altar, ready for the funeral Mass.
“Yes, Father—but—misunderstanding!” she caught at the word. “Is it untrue, then, Father, is it untrue?”
“I do not say that, but . . . tell me what M. de Brencourt said to you!”