"Why? Why?" she asked with evident surprise. "You have restored—and nearly frightened me to death in doing it—his wife to her home; what more do you want with him, most valiant knight-errant?"
"I must see him," I said firmly. I would have told her all and been thankful, but the priest was within hearing—or barely out of it; and I had seen too much pass between him and Bezers to be willing to say anything before him.
"You must see M. de Pavannes?" she repeated, gazing at me.
"I must," I replied with decision.
"Then you shall. That is exactly what I am going to help you to do," she exclaimed. "He is not here. That is what is the matter. He went out at nightfall seeking news of his wife, and crossed the river, the Coadjutor says, to the Faubourg St. Germain. Now it is of the utmost importance that he should return before morning—return here."
"But is he not here?" I said, finding all my calculations at fault. "You are sure of it, Madame?"
"Quite sure," she answered rapidly. "Your brothers will have by this time discovered the fact. Now, M. de Caylus, Pavannes must be brought here before morning, not only for his wife's sake—though she will be wild with anxiety—but also—"
"I know," I said, eagerly interrupting her, "for his own too! There is a danger threatening him."
She turned swiftly, as if startled, and I turned, and we looked at the priest. I thought we understood one another. "There is," she answered softly, "and I would save him from that danger; but he will only be safe, as I happen to know, here! Here, you understand! He must be brought here before daybreak, M. de Caylus. He must! He must!" she exclaimed, her beautiful features hardening with the earnestness of her feelings. "And the Coadjutor cannot go. I cannot go. There is only one man who can save him, and that is yourself. There is, above all, not a moment to be lost."
My thoughts were in a whirl. Even as she spoke she began to walk back the way we had come, her hand on my arm; and I, doubtful, and in a confused way unwilling, went with her. I did not clearly understand the position. I would have wished to go in and confer with Marie and Croisette; but the juncture had occurred so quickly, and it might be that time was as valuable as she said, and—well, it was hard for me, a lad, to refuse her anything when she looked at me with appeal in her eyes. I did manage to stammer, "But I do not know Paris. I could not find my way, I am afraid, and it is night, Madame."