“May I see it closer?”
“Why not—’tis but a paste,” and he held it up.
“You take great care of your hands, monsieur, for a serving soldier man,” was her comment, so unexpected that Pascal started and laughed.
“Do you think I do hard work?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
“Your clothes, too, are new and ill-fitting—they fit you so ill, indeed, that I would swear you have never worn the like before.”
“Count not the misfit to me for my sin,” replied Pascal gaily. “’Tis that of the rascal who made them. You interest me, mademoiselle; may I ask who you are?”
“Your voice, your manner, your tone, the very bow and air with which you asked that question, everything about you belies the servant, monsieur,” continued Lucette. “I am Mademoiselle de Malincourt’s foster sister and friend, Lucette de Boisdegarde; and I am on my way to tell her of this discovery of mine and other things. You bar my path, monsieur,” she said with dignity, as Pascal in some dismay put himself before her. “If you are in truth a servant, I order you to stand aside; if you are a gentleman, I ask you.”
“If I detain you a moment, it is only to assure you that Mdlle. de Malincourt and yourself can have no more faithful friend and well-wisher than myself.”
“Your name, monsieur?”
“Pascal de—Pascal Tourelle, at your service.”