Part saint, part conspirator, he had enough of the busybody in his composition to make his position as arch manipulator of Royalist plots a thoroughly congenial one. In Mlle de Rochambeau he saw a ravelled thread, and hastened to pick it up, with the laudable intention of working it into his network of intrigue. They came clear of the press, and he turned to her, his pale face austerely plump, his restless eyes hard. "I heard what I could hardly believe," he returned. "I heard that Henri de Rochambeau’s daughter had bought her life by accepting marriage with an atheist and a regicide, a Republican Deputy of the name of Dangeau." Aline bit her lip, her eyes stung. She would not justify herself to this man. There was only one man alive who mattered enough for that, but it was bitter enough to hear, for this was what all would say. She had known it all along, but realisation was keen, and she shrank from the pictured scorn of Mme de Matigny’s eyes and from Marguerite’s imagined recoil. She walked on a little way before she could say quietly: "It is true that I am married to M. Dangeau." But the Abbé had seen her face quiver, and drew his own conclusions. He was versed in reading between the lines. "Mme de Matigny suffered yesterday," he said with intentional abruptness, and Aline gave a low cry. "Marguerite—not Marguerite!" she cried out, and he touched her arm warningly. "Not quite so loud, if you please, Madame, and control your features better. Yes, that is not so bad. And now allow me to ask you a question. Why should Mlle de Matigny’s fate interest the wife of the regicide Dangeau?" "M. l’Abbé, for pity’s sake, tell me, she is not dead—little Marguerite?" "Not this time, Madame, but who knows when the blow will fall? But there, it can matter very little to you." "To me?" She sighed heavily. "It matters greatly. M. l’Abbé; I do not forget my friends. I have not so many that I can forget them." "You remember?" "Oh, M. l’Abbé!" "And you would help them?" "If I could." He paused, scrutinising her earnest face. Then he said slowly: "You bought your life at a great price, and something is due to those whom you left behind you in peril whilst you went out to safety. I knew your father. It is well that he is dead—yes, I say that it is well; but there is an atonement possible. In that you are happy. From where you are, you can hold out a hand to those who are in danger; you may do more, if you have the courage, and—if we can trust you." His keen look dwelt on her, and saw her face change suddenly, the eager light go out of it. "M. l’Abbé, you must not tell me anything," she said quickly, catching her breath; for Dangeau’s voice had sounded suddenly in her memory: "I have pledged my honour"; and she heard the ring of her own response—"Monsieur, your honour is safe." She had answered so confidently, and now, whatever she did, dishonour seemed imminent, unavoidable.