"Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, coldly, "I have heard enough to convince me that I need no longer trouble you for your advice or assistance in the management of my affairs.
"No, monsieur," she continued, as the abbé tried to speak, "excuses are useless. My confidence has been abused; and you have presumed to mislead me in the exercise of my authority over my step-daughter and her affairs for motives of your own. You may return to Rome, monsieur, since your services here are no longer required. You will have ample time to drive to Attigliano and take the evening train."
"Madame!" exclaimed the Abbé Roux.
"Not a word, sir," returned the princess, imperiously. "I trusted you as a friend and as a priest. You have proved yourself unworthy of that trust, and it is enough. Until the last moment—until the troops were within these walls—you have lied to me—yes, lied. And for what? In order to make money; in order—"
Princess Montefiano's voice failed her, and, suddenly overcome, she sat down in her chair. The Abbé Roux advanced towards her.
"Yes," he said, in accents trembling with anger and mortification—"yes, I will go to Rome, and all Rome shall hear how Donna Bianca Acorari has compromised herself, and how she has given herself to the first man who crossed her path. You may turn me out of your house, madame, but you cannot close my mouth. And you," he added, turning to Monsieur d'Antin, "you are a liar and a coward!"
Baron d'Antin shrugged his shoulders. "And you, Monsieur l'Abbé," he replied, "are a priest; otherwise—"
"Philippe," said the princess, in a hard, dry voice, "will you be so kind as to ring the bell?"
"Madame!" vociferated the abbé again.
The princess took no notice of him, and the maggior-domo answered the summons with suspicious promptitude.