She turned to him quickly. “Whenever I put it into words, all doubt flies.”
“So that if I were to say I thought you wrong, you would not change your opinion!”
She was silent. He pressed her. “Tell me.”
“No, monseigneur, I could not,” she said, scarcely audibly.
“Well, then, let me tell you that you are right, splendidly right,” he said, his face brightened by his appreciation. “Do not let any one persuade you to the contrary. For your husband’s soul as well as for his honour, yours is the only saving course, and at whatever cost of suffering—for you will both suffer—hold fast to it. If ever, in any way, I can help you, send for me. I shall remember you in my prayers, and thank God that He has made you braver than most women—yet I ought not to say that, for you women put us to shame.”
If Nathalie were womanlike in courage, she was womanlike in this also: that the moment she had got his approval, she began to doubt.
“There is our boy,” she said. “When I remember him, I am ready to shrink.”
“Will it do him good to have a father who sheltered himself behind a lie? Think only of that. My daughter, I do not fear for you. I believe that God will give you strength to prevail, but I wish I were permitted to help you.”
“Monseigneur, you have helped me. Until now I have been alone, and to know that you are on my side—But I have kept you too long, and here comes Félicie.”
“Ah,” said the bishop, smiling, “and she will have a great deal to say.”