Yet even while grieving over her haste, and repenting it after a fashion, her anger rose again at the remembrance of that cold glance which had averted itself from her when all in the court-room could have seen that she mutely begged his pardon for what she had been obliged to say.
"I hope this will teach you to guard your tongue a little," her father said in deep vexation, as he extricated her from the throng. "It's about the last place for a lady to come to. And, moreover, I hope it will cure you of concerning yourself about the pale looks and bad appetite of young men who do not trouble themselves about you."
"Oh! yes, papa," says Miss Lily; "since I've had a bad time, be sure you add a scolding to it. It's the way with you men."
Mr. Carthusen wisely kept silence. He had learned before this that the young woman who called him father had a remarkable talent for retort.
Where, then, did Mr. Schöninger spend the night the priest's house was entered? Not in Madison; for he had driven himself there early in the morning. He had waked a stable-keeper at four o'clock in the morning to give him a horse and buggy to drive to Madison. The man had wondered at the prisoner taking so early a start, even if he had to begin his lessons at eight o'clock, and had thought that something was the matter with him. He looked pale; and several times, while harnessing the horse, the witness had glanced up and seen him shivering, as if with cold, though it was a beautiful May morning. Mr. Schöninger had seated himself on a bench near the stable-door while waiting, and leaned his arms on his knees, looking down, and had not uttered a word before driving away, except to say that he would be back at seven o'clock in the evening. He looked like a man who had been up all night.
Being questioned, the witness testified that the prisoner wore at the time he saw him in the morning a large gray shawl, such as gentlemen wear; and, on still further questioning, he said that he had observed there was a little piece torn out of one corner. He had noticed and remembered this, because the shawl hung over the wheel when Mr. Schöninger started, and he had stopped him to tuck it up. His first passing thought had been that it was a pity to injure a new shawl; his second, on seeing the torn corner, that, after all, the shawl was not a new one. He would not, perhaps, have remembered such trivial circumstances but for what he heard immediately after. Some one came in and told him of Mother Chevreuse's death. It occurred to him that Mr. Schöninger must have heard of it already, and that it was that news which had made him so sober and silent. He recollected, too, having heard that F. Chevreuse and the Jew were quite great friends, but that the priest's mother did not like they should have any intercourse. He had observed, too, that Mr. Schöninger's boots were muddy, and wondered at it a little, as the roads were not bad, and as the prisoner had always been nice in his dress.
When Mr. Macon visited F. Chevreuse the evening of the second day, he found the priest looking quite haggard.
"You have written me the bad, and the worst of the bad," he exclaimed the moment the door was shut on them. "There must be something to counterbalance all this nonsense!"
"On the contrary, there is something to add," Mr. Macon replied. "Johnny couldn't get through the crowd at the last. They would not make way for him."