“But I was glad to leave Mirabel in any case,” finished the narrator with a sigh. “It has a tragic atmosphere—a haunted feeling. Were you not conscious of that, Monsieur le Comte?” And as the Comte, for fear of giving an opening, did not reply, the priest went on, “If it were M. de Trélan’s once more and he were free to go there, I am sure he never would.”
M. de Brencourt could not resist the bait. “No, I should think not!” he broke out in spite of himself. “He would think always of that night—of his wife, alone——”
The priest looked up. “Ah yes, I have heard you in that vein before, Monsieur le Comte,” he interrupted coolly. “Now tell me candidly, for I want to know, since I am not gently born, and can’t understand the refinements of you nobles—is it not a fact that all the aristocrats who emigrated early, as M. de Trélan did, emigrated on a point of honour . . . mistaken, it may be, but still a principle? Why, if it comes to that, Monsieur de Brencourt, you are, I think, an émigré yourself, and I don’t suppose you considered that you were running away?”
“No, that is true,” conceded the Comte somewhat reluctantly. “It was—before it became a matter of safety—a matter of principle.”
“When the Duc emigrated in 1790 it would have taken a very far-sighted person to prophesy the extremities to which the Revolution would go later on. I happen to know, too, that he made a great effort to induce the Duchesse to accompany him. She refused, as it were on a point of honour also. She disapproved of the emigration.”
“And dearly enough she paid for that disapproval,” muttered the Comte.
“Quite true. And don’t you think that M. de Trélan has paid dearly for it too?”
A pause. “He deserved to,” said his companion.
The Abbé made a gesture. “One must make allowances for you, Monsieur. I know that you had the honour of the acquaintance of that noble and unfortunate lady—you told us so—and it has biased you against a man who has been equally unfortunate, and who, for seven years, in the midst of hardships and dangers of his own seeking, has never ceased to suffer the pangs of a remorse which, as I hope for salvation, I consider excessive.”
“You are an eloquent defender, Abbé,” said the Comte de Brencourt, shrugging his shoulders. “You should be at the bar . . . I happen to differ from you. I consider, to put it bluntly, that M. le Duc de Trélan deserves every sting of remorse he has suffered and may still suffer henceforward. I am not for letting a man off so cheaply.”