“You have not seen him and spoken with him, or you would not say that.” “When did he come?” “But yesterday; or rather, two days past;” and Gabrielle told of the meeting in the market place and after at Malincourt. “It is a tragedy,” was the Duchess’s comment. “And you love him! Oh, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, what sorrow is there not in store for you!” “Not through him,” was the confident reply. “Alas! child, what do you know of men who judge them by a comely face and a fair-speaking tongue? When could a man not speak a maiden fairly? Have they not told you of his evil life? Of the crime for which he craved the Duke’s pardon fore ever he set foot in the city?” “My heart is closed to the voice of slander against him, dear,” replied Gabrielle, in the same proud confident tone. “How like a maiden in love! But alas! my child, I know these things are true. His life is forfeit for the one deed--but one among many in his black life. Oh, Gabrielle, how terrible, how terrible! It will break your life even worse than mine has been broken.” “I have neither fears for him nor doubts for myself.” “When the heart is young how easy to be confident. How sad and more than sad is all this! And here, then, is the reason why my words found your ears deaf, is it?” “Only in part. Had I never seen Gerard, my answer had been the same.” The Duchess sighed and shivered slightly in fear. “The Duke will hear your decision unwillingly, Gabrielle; and it will harden his heart against the man who thus comes between you and him. Your cup of suffering will be full indeed even while you are so young. He had built upon this marriage; thinking by it to join the influence of your house of Malincourt with his.” “I recall now how he spoke of my having some influence in the governing of the city, and of some sacrifice to be made by me. This may have been in his thoughts; and yet almost in the same breath he had spoken of my marriage to my cousin. ’Twas inexplicable to me then, and is even more so now. Yet the thing was not more possible then than now. Did death itself gape full in front of me, I would not be his wife.” There was no mistaking the unalterable firmness of her decision. “You have an honest heart and soul, Gabrielle, and were I you, and so placed as you, I should decide as you.” “You uphold me, then?” “I told the Duke I was sure what your reply would be when he laid on me the ungrateful task of questioning you. Yet in a way I am sorry; for if it be not you, it may be some one less worthy, to the hurt of all in Morvaix.” “And if need should come, you will stand by me as to my cousin?” “Have I ever failed you when I had the power to help? But in this I am powerless. It would be wrong to give you fruitless hope. Were he but a good man, worthy of your sweet pure love, how gladly would I serve you, if serve any one I can in my helplessness.”