“For them there is reason, too: they lived, or their fathers did, in the sunshine of the old Monarchy; wealth, rank, riches, power,--all were theirs. But you, who came amongst us with high hopes of greatness, where others have earned them on the field of battle,--whose youth is a guarantee that base and unworthy thoughts should form no part of his motives, and whose high career began under the very eyes of him, the idol of every soldier's heart,--oh I why turn from such a path as this, to dark and crooked ways, where low intrigue and plot and treachery are better weapons than your own stout heart and your own bright sword?” “Hear me, I pray you,” said I, bursting into impatience,--“hear me but one word, and know that you accuse me wrongfully. I have no part in, nor have I knowledge of, any treason.” “Oh, speak not thus to me! There are those who may call their acts by high-sounding titles, and say, 'We are but restoring our own sovereigns to the land they owned.' But you are free to think and feel; no prestige of long years blinds your reason or obstructs your sense of right.” “Once more I swear, that though I can but guess at where your suspicions point, my faith is now as true, my loyalty as firm, as when I pledged myself at your dear brother's side to be a soldier.” “Then why have you mixed yourself with their intrigues? Why are you already suspected? Why has Madame Bonaparte received orders to omit your name in all the invitations to the château?” “Alas! I know not. I learn now, for the first time that suspicion ever attached to me.” “It is said, too,--for already such things are spoken of,--that you know that dreadful man whose very presence is contamination. Oh! does it not seem like fate that his dark path should traverse every portion of my destiny?” The sobs that burst from her at these words seemed to rend her very bosom. “They say,” continued she, while her voice trembled with strong emotion,--“they say he has been here.” “I know not of whom you speak,” said I, as a cold chill ran through my blood. “Mehée de la Touche,” replied she, with an effort. “I never heard of him till now; the very name is unknown to me.” “Thank God for this!” muttered she between her teeth. “I thought, perhaps, that De Beauvais had made you known to each other.” “No; De Beauvais never introduced me, save to some friends of his one evening at a supper, several months back; and only one of them have I ever seen since,--an Abbé, d'Ervan. And, indeed, if I am guilty of any breach of duty, I did not think the reproach was to come from you.” The bitterness of these last words was wrung from me in a moment of wounded pride. “How! what mean you?” said she, impetuously. “No one has dared to call my fidelity into question, nor speak of me as false to those who cherish and protect me.”