Now they stood apart, somehow chilled and disillusionised.
The shadow of the priest had fallen upon them--had come between
them.
At this crisis the fourth person present asserted himself.
Hitherto he had stood silent just within the door: a plain man,
plainly dressed, somewhat over sixty and grey-haired. He looked
disconcerted and embarrassed, and I took him for Mirepoix--
rightly as it turned out.
"I am sure," he now exclaimed, his voice trembling with anxiety,
or it might be with fear, "your ladyship will regret leaving
here! You will indeed! No harm would have happened to you.
Madame d'O does not know what she is doing, or she would not take
you away. She does not know what she is doing!" he repeated
earnestly.
"Madame d'O!" cried the beautiful Diane, her brown eyes darting
fire at the unlucky culprit, her voice full of angry disdain.
"How dare you--such as you--mention my name? Wretch!"
She flung the last word at him, and the priest took it up. "Ay,
wretch! Wretched man indeed!" he repeated slowly, stretching
out his long thin hand and laying it like the claw of some bird
of prey on the tradesman's shoulder, which flinched, I saw, under
the touch.
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