Thus run the thoughts of the sailor, as the sweetness and witchery of the vision carries his senses along.
“Aimee de Telison!” he repeats in a whisper. “Who is she?”
The Marchioness hesitates; then she returns in the same guarded tones:
“Who is she? She is the daughter of a King.”
CHAPTER XXI—ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
Presently the beautiful Aimee quits the room, and the good Marchioness de Marsan tells her story.
“There is surely no reason why you shouldn’t know, my dear Commodore,” she says; “since all France knows. Aimee’s mother is of the de Tiercelins—a noble house, but impoverished. As a girl the mother was ravishingly lovely. This was in the days of Monsieur le Bel and the Parc-aux-Cerfs. The old king saw Mademoiselle de Tiercelin; the Pompadour did not object. Aimee was born; and presently her mother, whom the king called his ‘de Bonneval,’ was put away with a pension. The Bonneval’s father talked loudly, and was sent to the Bastile as a ‘Russian spy.’ One may say what one will in the Bastile; the walls are thick and have no ears. The Pompadour looked after poor de Bonneval and the little Aimee. She married the mother to a gentleman named Telison. The Pompadour died; the king died; Aimee was sixteen. Her stepfather de Telison, and her mother de Bonneval neglected her. They said ‘She is a Bourbon. Let the Bourbons provide.’ So I, who am her godmother, took Aimee. That was four years ago; and now it is as though she were my own child in very fact—I love her so.”
“But the present king?”