“Yes, monseigneur. For I urge him one way and all the others another—even my own father,” she sighed.
“Whatever it is, I am certain she is in the right,” reflected the bishop. Aloud, he said, quietly: “If you like to tell me, you may safely do so.”
She made a swift resolution, and she told him. He listened in amazement to the end.
“Before I speak, will you let me hear what is your own counsel!”
“I want him to meet the charge with the truth,” she said, “and to hide nothing.”
“That is a difficult task for a man in your husband’s position,” said the bishop, walking along the path with his head bent and his hands clasped behind him, wondering.
She sighed. “Very. And they are all against it. They think this Monsieur Lemaire may find it impossible to bring proofs, and they think also that from my birth I am no judge of the terrible indignity there would be if—if—”
She paused and covered her face. The bishop said, very gently—“Yet you are ready to face this ordeal!”
“Oh, I—I! I am no judge. If he were a beggar, it seems to me I should feel the same. But, oh, monseigneur, no wonder he shrinks. For him it is terrible!”
They walked silently. The bishop, who had expected to have to give advice, noticed that she had not asked for it. “My daughter,” he said, “when I invited your confidence, it was because you said you were in doubt. But you do not speak doubtfully.”