“And when I was in France,” said Trenchard, directing his remarks at no one in particular, but keeping the corner of his eye on Lucienne, “I met with a little adventure, which might have proved exceedingly unpleasant had it not been for the kind offices of two French gentlemen.”
“Oh, tell us the story, sir,” urged Amelia. “Come and sit down here beside us, and make the tale as long as possible, I beg of you!”
So Trenchard, nothing loth, seated himself with the two girls on one side of him and Sir William on the other. Many exclamations greeted him at the end of his recital.
“And did you never find out who the gentlemen were?” asked Amelia, for the narrator had cunningly concealed the names of his acquaintances. “Perhaps they are in England now; so many aristocrats are over here.”
“No, they were going back to Poitou. And what would you say, Miss Ashley, if I told you that they—or at least one of them—was a very near relative of your own? . . . Yes, Sir William, it was your nephew, M. de Château-Foix, and his cousin—not so nearly connected with you, I suppose—the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay. It was he who pulled me out of bed.” And he surveyed with pride the profound sensation he had produced.
“Well, I’m . . . astounded!” said Sir William.
“Well done, Cousin Gilbert!” murmured George, where he leant over the back of the seat. And the beautiful French girl, on whom Trenchard’s gaze was fixed—she had changed colour, was staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips, had half risen and sat down again.
Trenchard got up. “I am proud, Sir William,” he said handsomely, “to be in debt to connections of yours. And as a slight token of my gratitude to Monsieur le Marquis I undertook to be the bearer of a letter from him.” His hand went to a pocket. “When we parted he gave me this—for Mademoiselle Lucienne d’Aucourt.”
He held it out, with a deep bow, towards the young lady in question, where she still sat with Amelia on the Indian shawl.
And would you not have thought, he reflected to himself afterwards, that a girl would snatch rosily at such a letter? But not a bit. All the colour had ebbed from the face of Monsieur le Marquis’ betrothed as she put out a trembling and by no means an eager hand. But Amelia instantly intervened to shield her discomposure.