"He had the women!"
"And we have not him!"
"He would not have left us!" she cried hysterically.
"I believe it."
"Had they taken me, do you think he would have lain behind walls? Or skulked in safety here, while--while----" Her voice failed her.
He shook his head despondently.
"And that is all you can do?" she cried, and turned from him, and to him again, extending her arms, in bitter scorn. "All you will do? Do you forget that twice he spared your life? That in Paris once, and once in Angers, he held his hand? That always, whether he stood or whether he fled, he held himself between us and harm? Ay, always? And who will now raise a hand for him? Who?"
"Madame!"
"Who? Who? Had he died in the field," she continued, her voice shaking with grief, her hands beating the parapet--for she had turned from him--"had he fallen where he rode last night, in the front, with his face to the foe, I had viewed him tearless, I had deemed him happy! I had prayed dry-eyed for him who--who spared me all these days and weeks! Whom I robbed and he forgave me! Whom I tempted, and he forbore me! Ay, and who spared not once or twice him for whom he must now--he must now----" And unable to finish the sentence she beat her hands again and passionately on the stones.
"Heaven knows, madame," the minister cried vehemently, "Heaven knows, I would advise you if I could."