"Nay; I will say no more. Or only this: I, too, go to Liége about a work I have to do. A work"--and now she leant forward in the coach from which she had naturally not yet descended, while continuing in a low tone--"to which I am vowed, to which my life is vowed; a task in which so long as I have life I will not falter. And I have a hope, a belief, a supposition--call it what you will--that in you I may by chance light on one who can help me at little cost to himself."
"I protest, madame," Bevill almost stammered at hearing these words, "I protest that----"
"Listen, Monsieur le Blond," the Comtesse said, speaking so low that now her voice was no more than a whisper, a murmur, yet a whisper so clear that, by bending his head, the young man could catch every syllable she uttered. "Listen. Yet, ere you do so, promise me that no word I let fall, no thought I give utterance to, shall cause you offence, or, if I may say it, fear?"
"Fear? I fear nothing on this earth. While as for the rest, I promise."
"Enough." Then in, if it could be so, a yet lower tone, the Comtesse de Valorme continued:
"As I have said, you are not what you seem to be. You are not le Capitaine le Blond for he was a kinsman of mine and I knew him well. I--I--a Frenchwoman--ah! shame on me, good as my cause is--only hope you may be----"
"What?"
"As faithful to my desire, my secret, when you learn it, as I will be to yours. If so, then all will be well!"
"What else can madame believe I shall be? Speak. I will answer truthfully."
"No; I have said enough--for to-night. Farewell. I, too, leave this place early. Farewell, or rather adieu." And the Comtesse put out her hand to Bevill.