"Going away," echoed Gabrielle, relieved, and yet dismayed.
"It is necessary. Was it not delicately imagined to speak, as I had to speak, just on the eve of departure? Am I not considerate? We have lately had letters of strange purport from Paris. Outrageous rumours are abroad, which, if a whit of them is true, may mean serious peril to our class. Over the affair of the Bastile the king was lamentably misguided. He and his ministers know now and bitterly regret their lack of purpose, for the scum, as was to be expected, has taken heart of grace and waxes impudent with impunity. So I am going to make a little trip to the capital, just to reconnoitre. Do not be alarmed. I think that the agitation is all moonshine. Reflect on what I have said, and remember that there's a limit to man's patience. Your future, whether for comfort or the reverse, depends entirely on me. I repeat it for the sake of emphasis. I gave you peace, then at my whim withdrew it. Have I made it clear that what I have done I can undo?"
"There are limits to a woman's patience as well as a man's," Gabrielle observed, grimly.
"Quite so," acquiesced the other. "Mademoiselle Brunelle has been a thorn in your flesh, which I regret. You have endured its irritation with fortitude, for which you deserve all praise. It depends upon yourself whether or no the thorn be pruned away. For that you need my aid, which shall be freely tendered--on conditions that you wot of. During my absence I have instructed the chevalier to watch, that you may be shielded from assaults of the enemy. A useful watchdog is the chevalier, faithful and obedient, who will report to me everything that passes. It is a sad pity that he takes to drink. I have observed lately that he takes more and more to the bottle. Of that by and by he must be cured. Meanwhile, I would have you consider the case from every point of view, and yourself deliver the verdict."
The Abbé Pharamond rose to his feet, and kissing his finger tips, departed.
Pressure from all quarters to the same end. You have made your bed--make the best of it; accept the inevitable cheerfully. What the fates decree we fight against in vain. Unfortunate Gabrielle. Patience? Good heavens--how long-suffering was hers! And what had she gained by it? Rebuff. Persecution. Torture. Out of the labyrinth they had planted about her there were two exits. She might appeal to the maréchal for protection, return to the shelter of his roof. But to let him learn that her life was shattered, that the marriage he had himself arranged had turned out so disastrously; it would break the old man's heart.
The other passage? Through the gates of Death. No. That method of escape might not be employed either. What would the old man's feelings be if he discovered that she had been driven to suicide? And yet--to fall into the maw of the abbé. Never--never--never. Why not? Why should she care what happened? To her it mattered little now what chanced, bereft of all. Her father need never know. Perhaps, if she gave way they would in pity grant her peace? Sure she was going crazy. Peace? The peace of guilt? Peace where there was no peace? No--no. It should never come to that.
CHAPTER X.
[THE MAGIC TUB.]
The abbé was a chameleon--bewildering in the abruptness of his changes. The carriage that returned from Montbazon was a chariot of triumph, and the abbé joined with vigour in the pæans of victory. He wished to leave a good impression, that his absence might be regretted. He was going on a tour of business and of pleasure; was determined to enjoy himself immensely--he, who as a provincial had rarely visited Paris. How delicious before he went, he declared with rapture, to have his mind relieved, to be assured that the magic tub was no fraud--Mesmer, a genius, not a charlatan! They must toast the prophet in bumpers of champagne. He insisted on it, and accordingly dragged the delighted Clovis from his study to join the circle at dinner. Clovis was quite another man. A gladness was in his eyes that transformed his glum visage, and Gabrielle sitting opposite wondered. In this mood, sure if she spoke, he would hearken. Was the case really hopeless? Was it, indeed, too late? Alack. It was evident that the abbé was playing a part, for now and again he glanced at Gabrielle with an expression that was full of meaning. The situation was bewildering. Like one who dreams she sat listening to the victorious duet, wherein the marquis and the governess took up their tale by turns.