Bigot had many friends,--men living on his bounty, who ought only to
have been too happy to obey his slightest wishes,--friends bound to
him by disgraceful secrets, and common interests, and pleasures.
But he could trust none of them with the secret of Caroline de St.
Castin.
He felt a new and unwonted delicacy in regard to her. Her name was
dear to him, her fame even was becoming dearer. To his own surprise
it troubled him now as it had never troubled him before. He would
not have her name defiled in the mouths of such men as drank his
wine daily and nightly, and disputed the existence of any virtue in
woman.
Bigot ground his teeth as he muttered to himself that they might
make a mock of whatever other women they pleased. He himself could
out-do them all in coarse ribaldry of the sex, but they should not
make a mock and flash obscene jests at the mention of Caroline de
St. Castin! They should never learn her name. He could not trust
one of them with the secret of her removal. And yet some one of
them must perforce be entrusted with it!
He conned over the names of his associates one by one, and one by
one condemned them all as unworthy of confidence in a matter where
treachery might possibly be made more profitable than fidelity.
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