“Go and talk to Mme de Trélan, my boy,” said the Duc. “She is in the arbour. I imagine you still have memories of Mirabel to discuss.”
So Roland went to the arbour, where Valentine was, and having at her request fetched her embroidery, sat himself down precariously at her feet on an overturned wateringpot.
“Madame, I have a grievance against M. le Duc,” he began. “I must lay it before you, for you are the only person who can do anything for me in the matter.”
Valentine looked up. “What is it, my child?”
“My locket!” said Roland. “The locket you gave me. He has never returned it since that night!”
“Have you ever asked him?”
Roland shook his head, and his eyes said plainly who he proposed should perform that office. Valentine met them—and her needle slipped. The memory of another garden came back to her. He was like Gaston in just that light, when he wore just that expression. . . .
“Blood!” cried the young man. “Madame, you are quite pale! If you would allow me——” And out came his handkerchief.
She shook her head, and twisted her own round the scratch, which had already flecked the silk of the scarf. Suppose her first impression had been correct after all? Well, it was part of the pain of the past, stretching onwards, which she must face. And did it hurt so much in this wonderful present? But her look was grave when she said lightly, “Is there not some other person’s locket you would prefer to the concierge’s, Roland?”
He flushed a little. “Even if she would have me, if Mme de la Vergne and her brother—and my grandfather—would give their consents, I am more or less penniless, Madame. My estates were sequestrated when my father died two years ago.”