“Is it—Madame Valbonais?” he asked.
The voice was cultured and with a peculiar richness. The hand that held the cap was slim and white as a girl’s. His complexion was clear, with the faintest suggestion of olive, but rather pale, though the warmth had given a tint of color to the cheeks.
“I am Madame Valbonais,” gently inclining her head with a charming graciousness.
“And a De Longueville by birth?”
The accent was such a pure musical French that this time she smiled as she nodded.
“You do not know—at least you may not remember, but a long while ago, it seems, you came to Paris and were being sent to the New World, America. You were at the Hôtel de Longueville, and there were two little boys——”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes dilating as a sudden suspicion—knowledge, indeed—seemed to electrify her. “Oh, you are—” and her voice failed.
“I am one of the little boys, the eldest, Robert de Longueville. And my father was your father also. Mine is a sad story, madame, though it began fair enough. I have come to the New World, where I have not a friend. All I knew was that you had a grandfather in St. Louis and were sent thither. You must pardon me, madame——”
His voice broke a little and his eyes were downcast.
The good and tender God had sent some one to her in her hour of need. She, too, had come a stranger to this new land. But she was not old enough to realize all the desolation.