Péron sat down opposite, looking at him searchingly, the truth dawning upon him.
“Surely, mon père,” he said, “you have not allowed her to leave her old home like this?”
“My son, I could not prevent it,” the priest replied simply, “nor do I see how it could have been prevented; mademoiselle could not be a pensioner upon your bounty.”
“Nay, but to turn her out for me!” cried Péron, rising and walking to and fro. “St. Denis! I feel like a ruffian and a thief.”
“And yet, Jehan, you must remember that mademoiselle might have encountered worse treatment,” Père Antoine replied. “Monsignor had Pilâtre de Marcon in his toils; he let him go, only as he has let others go, that there might be stronger evidence against him. Independently of his action in regard to your father, Marsou would have been ruined and possibly beheaded. Renée realizes this herself; she bears you no ill-will, and appreciated your intended kindness.”
“Ah, mon père, you do not know how it is,” Péron said; “for you reason is sufficient, for me there must be something more!”
Père Antoine smiled sadly. “Young people fall readily into the error of thinking their case exceptional,” he said gently, “yet there is nothing new under the sun.”
Péron, who had been pacing the room, suddenly halted in front of him.
“Tell me,” he said, “where is she?”
Père Antoine averted his eyes. “My son,” he replied, “I am not at liberty to tell you.”