"Man! cannot you understand why--why I have not asked?" I cried hoarsely, rising, and sinking back in my seat in uncontrollable agitation. "Cannot you understand that until I asked I had hope? But now, torture me no longer! Tell me, tell me all, man, and then----"
"There is nothing but good to tell," he answered cheerfully, endeavouring to dispel my fears at the first word. "You know the worst. Poor M. de Gontaut was killed on the stairs. He was too infirm to flee. The rest, to the meanest servant, got away over the roofs of the neighbouring houses."
"And escaped?"
"Yes. The town was in an uproar for many hours, but they were well hidden. I believe that they have left the country."
"You do not know where they are, then?"
"No," he answered, "I never saw any of them after the outbreak. But I heard of them being in this or that château--at the Harincourts', and elsewhere. Then the Harincourts left--about the middle of October, and I think that M. de St. Alais and his family went with them."
I lay for a while too full of thankfulness to speak. Then, "And you know nothing more?"
"Nothing," the Curé answered.
But that was enough for me. When he came again I was able to walk with him on the terrace, and after that I gained strength rapidly. I remarked, however, that as my spirits rose, with air and exercise, the good priest's declined. His kind, sensitive face grew day by day more sombre, his fits of silence longer. When I asked him the reason, "It goes ill, it goes ill," he said. "And, God forgive me, I had to do with it."
"Who had not?" I said soberly.