“And I—­I will guarantee the contrary,” said Edmee.  “Besides, I could not consent to this.  Whatever Bernard may be, I am anxious to come out of our duel with honour; and if I acted as you suggest, he would have cause to believe that up to the present I have been unworthily trifling with him.”

“Well, there is only one means left, and that is to trust to the honour and discretion of M. de la Marche.  Set before him the details of your position, and then let him give the verdict.  You have a perfect right to intrust him with your secret, and you are quite sure of his honour.  If he is coward enough to desert you in such a position, your remaining resource is to take shelter from Bernard’s violence behind the iron bars of a convent.  You can remain there a few years; you can make a show of taking the veil.  The young man will forget you, and they will set you free again.”

“Indeed, that is the only reasonable course to take, and I had already thought of it; but it is not yet time to make the move.”

“Very true; you must first see the result of your confession to M. de la Marche.  If, as I make no doubt, he is a man of mettle, he will take you under his protection, and then procure the removal of this Bernard, whether by persuasion or authority.”

“What authority, abbe, if you please?”

“The authority which our customs allow one gentleman to exercise over his equal—­honour and the sword.”

“Oh, abbe!  You too, then are a man with a thirst for blood.  Well, that is precisely what I have hitherto tried to avoid, and what I will avoid, though it cost me my life and honour.  I do not wish that there should be any fight between these two men.”

“I understand:  one of the two is very rightly dear to you.  But evidently in this duel it is not M. de la Marche who would be in danger.”

“Then it would be Bernard,” cried Edmee.  “Well, I should hate M. de la Marche, if he insisted on a duel with this poor boy, who only knows how to handle a stick or a sling.  How can such ideas occur to you, abbe?  You must really loathe this unfortunate Bernard.  And fancy me getting my husband to cut his throat as a return for having saved my life at the risk of his own.  No, no; I will not suffer any one either to challenge him, or humiliate him, or persecute him.  He is my cousin; he is a Mauprat; he is almost a brother.  I will not let him be driven out of this home.  Rather I will go myself.”

“These are very generous sentiments, Edmee,” answered the abbe.  “But with what warmth you express them!  I stand confounded; and, if I were not afraid of offending you, I should confess that this solicitude for young Mauprat suggests to me a strange thought.”

“Well, what is it, then?” said Edmee, with a certain brusqueness.

“If you insist, of course I will tell you:  you seem to take a deeper interest in this young man than in M. de la Marche, and I could have wished to think otherwise.”