"Marteau—Jean," she said softly, "I was not his wife. Perhaps now that he is dead it would have been better if I had been, but——"
"And you are free?"
Again the Countess looked at the Englishman. Simple and homely though he was, he showed the qualities of his birth and rank.
"Mademoiselle," he began gravely, almost tenderly. He looked a long time at her. "Little Laure," he continued at last, taking her slender hand in his own great one, "I had hoped that you might some day call me father but that hope is gone—since Waterloo. If I were your real father now I should say——"
"Monsieur!" whispered the woman, her eyes brightening, her hand tightening in the clasp of the other.
"And I think the old Marquis would say that it is the will of God, now——" He bit his lip. It was all so different from what he imagined.
"Go on, if you please," whispered Marteau. "I am ill. I cannot bear——"
"If she be guided by me she will be your wife, young sir," said Sir Gervaise decisively.
He dropped the woman's hand. He turned and walked heavily out of the room without a backward glance. He could do no more.
"And will you stoop to me?" pleaded Marteau.