“This, that she has had you under her roof for nearly seven years as her ‘aunt,’ and that it was from her house that you were taken off to prison as a suspected aristocrat. Yes, you see I know that now—not from Suzon, of course.”
“We are not in the Terror now,” said Valentine uneasily. Could Suzon really be in danger?
“No, but we may go back to it before long if these crazy young Royalist reactionaries become more troublesome. There were quantities of collets noirs in that fracas with the Jacobins of the Société du Manège last month. You may approve of those antics, but they will lead to—repression.”
“But what am I to do?” asked Valentine. “I deny complicity with the persons who came here, but truth or falsehood, as I know, has little to do with the verdict of a revolutionary jury, and for nothing in the world would I have Suzon suffer on my account.”
Camain took a turn up and down, his arms folded. “Yes, what can you do?” he asked sarcastically. “Rather late to think of that now! Well, I think the best thing you can do, Madame Vidal, is to vanish. If there is an enquiry, which I shall do my best to prevent for my own sake, Suzon had better not be able to produce you.”
Valentine’s heart gave a leap. Was it possible that he, of all people, might be interested in her going to Finistère? A few moments ago her chances of an interview with the Marquis de Kersaint had seemed very remote indeed.
“But how can I vanish in a moment?” she asked.
Camain came nearer, and looked down at her with searching, half mocking eyes. “Have you no friends, no aristocratic kin who would shelter you? Cannot you go back to that ‘provincial town’ from which you came to be Suzon’s aunt? Difficult to find again, I fancy! . . . It must be a complete, a good disappearance—you must not be caught.”
“To fulfil that requirement, Monsieur le Député, there is no place but the grave. I do not propose to kill myself, nor, I suppose, are you asking that of me.”
An unwilling smile came over the heavy, angry visage.