"Yes, it is I. Walk on quietly, and do not appear to be specially attentive. I saw you last at the Abbaye, how is it that I meet you here?"
A slight colour rose to Aline's cheek. Her tone became distant.
"I think you are too well informed as to what passes in Paris not to know, M. l'Abbé," she said.
They came out into a little crowd of people as she spoke, and he walked on without replying, his thoughts busy.
Part saint, part conspirator, he had enough of the busybody in his composition to make his position as arch manipulator of Royalist plots a thoroughly congenial one. In Mlle de Rochambeau he saw a ravelled thread, and hastened to pick it up, with the laudable intention of working it into his network of intrigue. They came clear of the press, and he turned to her, his pale face austerely plump, his restless eyes hard.
"I heard what I could hardly believe," he returned. "I heard that Henri de Rochambeau's daughter had bought her life by accepting marriage with an atheist and a regicide, a Republican Deputy of the name of Dangeau."
Aline bit her lip, her eyes stung. She would not justify herself to this man. There was only one man alive who mattered enough for that, but it was bitter enough to hear, for this was what all would say. She had known it all along, but realisation was keen, and she shrank from the pictured scorn of Mme de Matigny's eyes and from Marguerite's imagined recoil. She walked on a little way before she could say quietly:
"It is true that I am married to M. Dangeau."
But the Abbé had seen her face quiver, and drew his own conclusions. He was versed in reading between the lines.
"Mme de Matigny suffered yesterday," he said with intentional abruptness, and Aline gave a low cry.