She did not even look at him. M. Beaucaire lifted his hand appealingly toward her. “Can there be no faith in—in—he said timidly, and paused. She was silent, a statue, my Lady Disdain.
“If you had not belief' me to be an impostor; if I had never said I was Chateaurien; if I had been jus' that Monsieur Beaucaire of the story they tol' you, but never with the heart of a lackey, an hones' man, a man, the man you knew, himself, could you—would you—” He was trying to speak firmly; yet, as he gazed upon her splendid beauty, he choked slightly, and fumbled in the lace at his throat with unsteady fingers.—“Would you—have let me ride by your side in the autumn moonlight?” Her glance passed by him as it might have passed by a footman or a piece of furniture. He was dressed magnificently, a multitude of orders glittering on his breast. Her eye took no knowledge of him.
“Mademoiselle-I have the honor to ask you: if you had known this Beaucaire was hones', though of peasant birth, would you—”
Involuntarily, controlled as her icy presence was, she shuddered. There was a moment of silence.
“Mr. Molyneux,” said Lady Mary, “in spite of your discourtesy in allowing a servant to address me, I offer you a last chance to leave this room undisgraced. Will you give me your arm?”
“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Molyneux.
Beaucaire dropped into a chair with his head bent low and his arm outstretched on the table; his eyes filled slowly in spite of himself, and two tears rolled down the young man's cheeks.
“An' live men are jus'—names!” said M. Beaucaire.