“One of your boarders?” said Milady; “oh, my God! Poor woman! I pity her, then.”
“And you have reason, for she is much to be pitied. Imprisonment, menaces, ill treatment-she has suffered everything. But after all,” resumed the abbess, “Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by the appearance.”
“Good!” said Milady to herself; “who knows! I am about, perhaps, to discover something here; I am in the vein.”
She tried to give her countenance an appearance of perfect candor.
“Alas,” said Milady, “I know it is so. It is said that we must not trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not in the most beautiful work of the Lord? As for me, I shall be deceived all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose countenance inspires me with sympathy.”
“You would, then, be tempted to believe,” said the abbess, “that this young person is innocent?”
“The cardinal pursues not only crimes,” said she: “there are certain virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offenses.”
“Permit me, madame, to express my surprise,” said the abbess.
“At what?” said Milady, with the utmost ingenuousness.
“At the language you use.”
“What do you find so astonishing in that language?” said Milady, smiling.
“You are the friend of the cardinal, for he sends you hither, and yet–”
“And yet I speak ill of him,” replied Milady, finishing the thought of the superior.
“At least you don’t speak well of him.”
“That is because I am not his friend,” said she, sighing, “but his victim!”
“But this letter in which he recommends you to me?”
“Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which he will release me by one of his satellites.”
“But why have you not fled?”
“Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his hand? If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a woman do? This young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?”
“No, that is true; but she–that is another thing; I believe she is detained in France by some love affair.”
“Ah,” said Milady, with a sigh, “if she loves she is not altogether wretched.”
“Then,” said the abbess, looking at Milady with increasing interest, “I behold another poor victim?”
“Alas, yes,” said Milady.
The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh thought suggested itself to her mind.
“You are not an enemy of our holy faith?” said she, hesitatingly.
“Who–I?” cried Milady; “I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!”
“Then, madame,” said the abbess, smiling, “be reassured; the house in which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here, moreover, the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and well-behaved.”
“What is her name?”
“She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty. I have not tried to discover her other name.”
“Kitty!” cried Milady. “What? Are you sure?”
“That she is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know her?”
Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her that this might be her old chambermaid. There was connected with the remembrance of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance disordered the features of Milady, which, however, immediately recovered the calm and benevolent expression which this woman of a hundred faces had for a moment allowed them to lose.
“And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a sympathy?” asked Milady.
“Why, this evening,” said the abbess; “today even. But you have been traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you rose at five o’clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you.”