was able; since then I have been on the high road, tortured with fears as to what has happened to my father and what to Laurent. But by all that I hold most dear, _ma tante_, what I have told you is the truth." Madame had listened in silence, at first with averted head and with a look of sullen obstinacy on her face. She would have given much to remain unconvinced. The burning indignation which she had felt at Laurent's conduct had to vent itself on the innocent cause of it. After a while she looked into Fernande's face with a piercing, searching gaze. She would have liked to hold the girl's soul naked before her eyes, and to search within its innermost recesses for a sign of guilt or even of weakness. But it was impossible to look for long into the sweet, earnest face and the limpid blue eyes which were the true mirrors of candour and of purity, and to affect doubt which no longer could exist. In her heart Madame knew that Fernande spoke the truth. Everything that she said bore the impress of actual facts witnessed and faithfully recorded. Madame was bound to admit it, but she was far too self-willed and obstinate to do so generously--and, above all, she knew that never as long as she lived would she forgive Fernande de Courson for having been the cause--however innocent--of Laurent's unpardonable conduct. "It may be the truth," she said grudgingly--"it is the truth, no doubt, since you are prepared to swear it." "Do you still doubt me, _ma tante_?" "No. But one thing, my girl, is certain--and that is if Laurent had not seen you stealing out of the chateau--if he had spoken for five minutes with you--he would have gone straight back to his post, and would not now be under the suspicion of having deserted his men in the hour of danger."