"Nor an honourable woman either," aptly retorted the marquise.
"That brings us to the burning question," said the abbé, drawing a step nearer, in his earnestness. "The fault, if fault it was, was mine, not Clovis's, and I am prepared to bear the blame of my own actions. A little more blame or less," he added, lightly, "cannot make much difference, since I know you consider me a demon. That is all dead and buried--blown away and done with." By a graceful gesture the churchman blew away the past. "It was I who brought back Mademoiselle Brunelle for prudential reasons, which I admit humbly now were unjustifiable. I thought your objection to the lady was founded on her interference in the nursery and nothing more, and, as you know, she quite understands that in future she has no place there. If your memory serves you, you will remember my pointing out once that a man like Clovis requires to be led by a woman. You could not or would not lead him--that is your affair; and I felt convinced that we were fortunate in his having a leader whose relations with him were platonic. What if, deprived of her, he had pitched on an affinity of exactly the opposite stamp?"
This was true also. Gabrielle felt that it was.
"As it is by your line of action you lead the world to suppose that you deem them guilty, and you know as well as I do that although she once talked nonsense in bravado, they are innocent. You drive us from the house and we go. Need I remark that mademoiselle goes with us? Thus you accentuate the suggestion of impropriety which you are aware does not exist, instead of showing by your behaviour that you are satisfied of the innocence of both."
"Do you think to persuade me," asked the marquise, with sad wonder, in which was a tinge of bitterness, "to accept the woman's presence? The son of the Church calls for too lavish a display of Christian charity."
"I call on you for nothing," returned the abbé, meekly, "since in a week we shall be gone. The scandal of disruption will lie with you; we are not responsible."
So the man persisted in proving her to be in the wrong!
"I do not desire that you should go away, and I will admit that I have been precipitate. What does Clovis want? I am ready to do all I can to meet his views, but he must not suppose that I will accept that woman."
The marquise's barriers were tottering. Even the abbé had not expected that she would show such feebleness of purpose. His point of refraining to strike at her through her offspring, by removing them, was cleverly imagined, and had told. Would it be prudent to administer another stroke now, to attempt by a vigorous charge to carry the citadel at once, or would it be wiser to wait? It would not do to present the appearance of taking too much upon himself. Clovis must be forced to come forward and play his part. The ground was well prepared. The wife felt compunctious visitings, and so the husband might say his say without loss of dignity. The abbé resolved, therefore, that it was time for him to retire into shadow. So he echoed quietly, "What does he want? Nothing, since as you yourself wrote, 'all is over.' When you first propounded the notion to me, I knew he would not forgive that testament."
So that was at the bottom of it all. Who could have guessed that a dreamy man, wrapped in scientific mists, should so hotly resent an infringement of marital authority? She appeared to have wandered unwittingly so far into the thicket of error, that it seemed vain to grope after the right; and yet, as she repeated to herself again and again, she had meant so extremely well!