One morning toward the end of the week Roger came as usual to sit with me. Jeanne was in the room, but she disappeared quickly, her pretty cheeks covered with blushes.
"You have frightened Jeanne away!" I exclaimed, laughing.
"She knows that I wish to have a talk with you," he answered, and upon my word he began to blush like an overgrown boy.
"One would fancy it a matter of some importance!"
"Of the greatest importance," he replied earnestly, "since it affects all your future life. Do you realize that unless you desert your faith, and go to mass, your career is ruined? Your account of the massacre was under rather than over the mark. With the exception of Condé and Navarre there does not appear to be a single Huguenot leader left, and it is reported that Condé has recanted in order to save his life."
"The Cause is not dead because Condé has forsaken it."
"No," agreed Roger, "but it is dead nevertheless. Henry is a prisoner in Paris; the Huguenots are scattered and dispirited; they have no leaders, no arms, no money; there is not a single district in which they are not at the mercy of the king's troops. Already the Paris massacre has been repeated in several towns."
"Well," I said, wondering whither all this tended.
"You yourself cannot leave Rochelle except at the risk of your life."
"Because of Cordel?"