"I will do as you think best," murmured Aline. "They are unmarried, one is an invalid, and they are good women. It is some years since I have seen them, but I remember my Aunt Ange was greatly beloved in Rancy. I think you would be safe with her." A vision of safety and a woman’s protection rose persuasively before Aline, and she looked up with a quick, confiding glance that moved Dangeau strangely. She was at once so rigid and so soft, so made for love and trusting happiness, and yet so resolute to repel it. He bit his lip as he stood looking at her, and a sort of rage against life and fate rose hotly, unsubdued within him. He turned to leave her, but she called him back, in a soft, hesitating tone that brought back the days of their first intercourse. When he looked round he saw that she was pale and agitated. "Monsieur!" she stammered, and seemed afraid of her own voice; and all at once a wild stirring of hope set his heart beating. "What is it? Won’t you tell me?" he said; and again she tried to speak and broke off, then caught her courage and went on. "Oh, Monsieur, if you would do something!" "Why, what is it you want me to do, child?" That was almost his old kind look, and it emboldened her. She rose and leaned towards him, clasping her hands. "Oh, Monsieur, you have influence—" and at that his brow darkened. "What is it?" he said. "I heard—I heard—" She stopped in confusion. "Oh! it is my friend, Marguerite de Matigny. Her grandmother is dead, and she is alone. Monsieur, she is only seventeen, and such a pretty child, so gay, and she has done no harm to any one. It is impossible that she could do any harm." "I thought you had no friends?" "No, I had none; but in the prison they were good to me—all of them. Old Madame de Matigny knew my parents, and welcomed me for their sakes; but Marguerite I loved. She was like a kitten, all soft and caressing. Monsieur, if you could see her, so little, and pretty—just a child!" Her eyes implored him, but his were shadowed by frowning brows. "Is that what the priest told you to say?" he asked harshly. "The priest——" "You ’d lie to me," he broke out, and stopped himself. "Do you think I didn’t recognise the look, the tone? Did he put words into your mouth?" Her eyes filled. "He told me about Marguerite," she said simply. "He told me she was alone, and it came into my heart to ask you to help her. I have no one to ask but you." The voice, the child’s look would have disarmed him, but the words he had overheard came back, and made his torment. "If it came into your heart, I know who put it there," he said. "And what else came with it? What else were you to do? Do you forget I overheard? If I thought you had lent yourself to be a tool, to influence, to bribe—mon Dieu, if I thought that——" "Monsieur!" but the soft, agitated protest fell unheard. "I should kill you—yes, I think that I should kill you," he said in a cold, level voice.