“He is in England now,” she said, “and I am afraid.”
“Jean le Roi?” he muttered.
“King of the Apaches,” she answered bitterly. “‘The greatest rogue in Paris,’ they said, when they sentenced him.”
“Sentenced him!” he repeated, bewildered.
“He has been in prison since the day we were married,” she continued. “It was I who sent him there.”
He bowed his head. He felt that it was not right to look at her. An infinite wave of tenderness swept through his whole being. He was ashamed of his past thoughts of her, of his hasty judgments. All the time she had been carrying this in her bosom. Her very pride seemed to him now magnificent. He felt suddenly like a querulous child.
“What can I do to help you?” he asked softly.
She came a little nearer to him.
“I am afraid,” she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “Ever since I heard the story of his life, as it was told in court, I have been afraid. When he was taken, he swore to be revenged. For the last twenty-four hours I have felt somehow that he was near! Read this!”
She passed him a letter. The notepaper was thick and expensive, and headed by a small coronet.