"Because of your scruples, godmother."
"My scruples? Why should I have any? Am I not innocent of what is passing?"
"Your scruples will arise, although very absurd: they will arise, I tell you, and you will listen to them."
"In what way?"
"Suppose you were informed of every particular, by some unheard—of prodigy, of the future destiny of a person utterly indifferent to you, whom you do not even know. This prescience might acquaint you that this person would die in eight days,—die by some fatal occurrence, although you would not, in the slightest way, be mixed up in the causes of this death, or in any way profit by it, or without your being able to change the course of events which lead to it; yet would you not feel a kind of agony at this disclosure; would you not consider yourself as in some way mixed up with this result when you saw the person ignorant of the terrible fate in store whilst you were cognisant of it?"
"I should not think myself an accomplice in this death, but I should feel much horror at seeing that person advance, confident and tranquil, towards an abyss of which he knew nothing."
"Well! would not your horror become remorse if this person were your own husband, and if his destiny fulfilled your every wish, realised your every hope?"
"What do you mean?"
"How innocent soever you might be of such a catastrophe, should you not consider yourself as almost criminal,—only because you were informed beforehand? Again, do not ask me any more; do not compel me to speak! You will repent it when too late. Rely on me!"
"Rely on you? No, no, I know what you are capable of. I was entirely innocent of your horrible attempts on M. de Hansfeld, yet appearances condemned me, yet I tell you I wish to know all."