“I know not of whom you speak,” said I, as a cold chill ran through my blood.
“Mehée de la Touche,” replied she, with an effort.
“I never heard of him till now; the very name is unknown to me.”
“Thank God for this!” muttered she between her teeth. “I thought, perhaps, that De Beauvais had made you known to each other.”
“No; De Beauvais never introduced me, save to some friends of his one evening at a supper, several months back; and only one of them have I ever seen since,—an Abbé, d'Ervan. And, indeed, if I am guilty of any breach of duty, I did not think the reproach was to come from you.”
The bitterness of these last words was wrung from me in a moment of wounded pride.
“How! what mean you?” said she, impetuously. “No one has dared to call my fidelity into question, nor speak of me as false to those who cherish and protect me.”
“You mistake my meaning,” said I, sadly and slowly. Then hesitating how far I should dare allude to De Beauvais's affection, I stopped, when suddenly her face became deeply flushed, and a tear started to her eye.
“Alas, she loves him!” said I to my heart, and a sickness like death passed over me. “Leave me, leave me quickly!” cried she. “I see persons watching us from the terrace.” And with that she moved hastily on towards the château, and I turned into one of the narrow walks that led into the wood.
Two trains of thought struggled for mastery in my mind: how had I become suspected? how should I wipe out the stain upon my honor?