“I know!” she exclaimed. “It is Monsieur Laflamme. And he dared——”
She clinched her small fist.
“Then he spoke last night? And you——”
“No, he did not speak. But you can make one understand. Perhaps he might have, but André came.”
Renée rose suddenly and stretched up her full height.
“Then he did mean— André said he was only pretending. I should hate him still more if he could do that! But if he thinks I care for him and would go away with him to the fairest spot in the world—oh, you do not want me to!” and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing vehemently.
“Renée, child, there is no harm done. He was very gentlemanly. He asked for your hand as an honest man should. And we cannot blame him altogether,” a spice of humor in his tone. “He fancied you cared for him. Men occasionally make mistakes.”
Had she made him believe that? She had tried somewhat without considering the consequences. The little triumph had appealed to her girlish vanity. How could she explain it?
“I liked him a little,” she confessed brokenly. “And I was proud and delighted to be chosen his queen. But I do not want him to love me. I do not want any one to love me but just you. I shall never love any one else.”
It was a very sweet confession, but she did not know what it meant. So her mother had said, and he wanted to believe he had held her truest faith, and this had descended to her child.