"The young Duchess of Hereward, monseigneur?" said the abbess, in a low voice.
The duke started very slightly, but his pale face flushed crimson.
"Pardon, monseigneur. I am the more deeply interested in the young lady, for that she passed her infancy, childhood and youth—being nearly the whole of her short life, indeed, under this roof—where I stood in the position of a mother to her orphanage."
"I knew, madam, that the motherless heiress was educated here," replied the duke, by way of saying something.
"You will, therefore, understand the interest I take in Madame la Duchesse, and forgive my question when I ask: Have you heard from her grace since she left her home?"
"You knew that she had left her home, then?" exclaimed the duke, in painful astonishment.
The abbess bowed assent.
"I hoped and believed that no one knew of her flight except the members of our own household, and the single confidential agent I employed to find her, and on whose discretion I could implicitly rely," said the duke, in a tone of extreme mortification and sorrow.
"Be tranquil, monseigneur, no one does know of it out of the circle of her own devoted friends, who can never misinterpret it."
"You know something of the duchess' movements, then? You know, perhaps, the cause of her flight—the place of her residence? You know—ah, madam, tell me what you know, I beseech you!" implored the duke.