“Very well,” I hastened to assure her. “I forgive and forget. Or rather, I shall not forget, because you laugh adorably.”
“In truth,” she said, with just a touch of malice, “one would imagine you were straight from Versailles instead of——”
“Beaufort,” I said, flushing a little.
“And how does it happen you are so far from home?” she queried, bending upon me a look of raillery.
Then I remembered; my heart turned to lead in my bosom, and despite myself a groan burst from me in the first sharp agony of recollection.
“What is it, monsieur?” she questioned, instantly serious, and coming toward me quickly. “You are not ill?”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely, dropping upon a seat. “I am very ill, mademoiselle—so ill that I fear I shall never make a recovery.”
“Oh, horrible!” she cried; and sat down beside me, and passed her handkerchief across my forehead—her handkerchief, fragrant with I know not what intoxicating scent. “But a moment ago you were quite well, or seemed so. Is it the heart?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” I answered, rallying sufficiently to perceive that the situation was not without its advantages, and determining to maintain it as long as possible. “It is the heart.”
“And you are subject to such seizures?” she continued, still gazing at me anxiously, so near that I could see the dew upon her lips, could catch the child-like fragrance of her breath. Here was a woman different from any that I had ever known or dreamed of—genuine, unaffected, of a sincerity almost boyish.