“Indeed, sweet one,” she said with a smile, “it is delightful to have you all to myself, and for a nice whole long day. . . . You won’t be bored?”
“Oh! bored! Margot, how can you say such a wicked thing. Why! when we were in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we were allowed to be alone together.”
“And to talk secrets.”
The two young girls had linked their arms in one another’s and began wandering round the garden.
“Oh! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling,” said little Suzanne, enthusiastically, “and how happy you must be!”
“Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy—oughtn’t I, sweet one?” said Marguerite, with a wistful little sigh.
“How sadly you say it, chérie. . . . Ah, well, I suppose now that you are a married woman you won’t care to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh! what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you remember?—some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the Holy Angels—though she was such a dear.”
“And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?” said Marguerite, merrily, “which you are forthwith going to confide to me. Nay, you need not blush, chérie,” she added, as she saw Suzanne’s pretty little face crimson with blushes. “Faith, there’s naught to be ashamed of! He is a noble and true man, and one to be proud of as a lover, and . . . as a husband.”
“Indeed, chérie, I am not ashamed,” rejoined Suzanne, softly; “and it makes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think maman will consent,” she added thoughtfully, “and I shall be—oh! so happy—but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until papa is safe. . . .”
Marguerite started. Suzanne’s father! the Comte de Tournay!—one of those whose life would be jeopardised if Chauvelin succeeded in establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.