"Madame Baroness," said he, "have you never wondered at your long escape from the perils of these times? When the mansions of others were burned, your house has been free from molestation; when their goods were appropriated by the nation, yours have been left intact; when all aristocrats have been sent to the guillotine, you have slept in safety. Have you not thought this strange?"
The questioning seemed to be lost upon her, except for a nod.
"Did you never," he went on, "suspect that some power was protecting you, and ask by whose influence you were thus surrounded and your peace secured? Did you never recognise a faithfulness which relaxed at no moment, a care which was unlimited—in a word, a secret friend at the source of affairs? Madame, I was that friend."
He stopped and looked at her, his increasing excitement overcoming his stealth. She was moved, and tears brimmed in her eyes.
"I am grateful, Abbé Jude; let me say it from my heart. You have been wronged by us. We believed you were different."
At the tribute his eager look intensified itself into a piercing gaze which made her feel dread of him.
"Yes, I was that secret friend," he cried. "It was I who protected you at the sections, I struck your name from the lists of proscriptions, I diverted the marches of the patriots from your portals. Do you think all this would be done for three years without true faithfulness?"
"You have indeed proved yourself a loyal friend."
"More than that," he exclaimed; "it was more than loyalty, it was worship! Madame, believe me your name has always been to me a sacred adoration, a passion, an affection beyond expression. Do you doubt it? Know that I loved you from the first moment I saw you in the house of the Princess de Poix. I loved you, I adored you secretly, I sought for a favourable time to declare my passion."
Her eyes opened wide as she listened, and she would have given worlds to escape, yet her feeling was mainly of pity.