"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful crimes of which that man accuses him?"
"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and falling into the arms which opened to receive her.
[CHAPTER V.]
THE PREPARATIONS OF TYRO.
The painter's rencontre, on his leaving the convent, had struck him with a sad presentiment as to his protégés.
Without being able quite clearly to account for the sentiments he entertained for them, however unfortunate himself, he felt himself constrained to aid and succour by all means in his power, the women who, without knowing him, had so frankly claimed his protection.
His self-love—first as a man, and then as a Frenchman—was flattered at the part which he thus found himself called on to play unawares in this sombre and mysterious affair, the whole of which, notwithstanding the confidence of the marchioness, he much doubted whether they had revealed to him.
But what mattered that?