“’Tis good to hear one’s own tongue spoken without hesitation,” said the stranger. “I am come up from New York, where I hear little except a vile Dutch tongue and that brain-splitting English. One finds great relief in this gay company, as much from the merry occasion as from the association. Your brother was good enough to accede to my request to present me. He is your brother, is he not?”
“The son of my mother’s husband,” returned Alaine, sedately. “He is my step-brother.”
“Ah! and yonder rosy-faced good wife is your mother? You do not resemble her, mademoiselle.”
“I resemble my own father,” replied Alaine, steadily.
“And from what part of France are you? Madame Mercier should be from Normandy. I am at home there. I was born in Rouen.”
“Yes?” Alaine tried to look indifferent, but her eyes were taking in every detail. She had a dim consciousness of having seen this face before. “I was not born there,” she added. “The Merciers are not from there, and in these days, monsieur, one’s birthplace is of less account than that place where he will meet his death.”
“Yes, yes; quite true, when one is in a wild and savage country. M. Mercier, is it he standing yonder by his son? The son has overtopped his father by many inches.”
“That is M. Mercier. But listen, some one is starting up a song of praise, and I see my brother comes for me.”
“I say but au revoir, mademoiselle.”
Alaine made a slight inclination of her head. She did not like the confident tone. “Gerard,” she whispered as he led her away, “who is the man? He is too inquisitive for my liking. He does not sing, either. I hope he is not some evil, prying creature. I told him but little, whatever he may have desired to know.”