His father! Her heart leapt up again. And yet . . . Was it possible that she wished he were Gaston’s son?
“Sequestrated by the Government, I suppose? You never told me that. Where are they, Roland—in Brittany also?”
“No, Madame; right down in the south, near Avignon.”
Quite abruptly the Duchesse de Trélan stood up, dropping the scarf; and the youth, trying to follow her example with the alacrity which politeness demanded, all but rolled off the wateringcan. And Valentine apologised. “I suddenly felt it too hot here. I will go under the trees, I think.”
Near Avignon! So was Saint-Chamans. She really felt faint, and yet it was not exactly with distaste. But she must know. And since nothing, not even that, had power to come between them now she would ask Gaston himself at the first opportunity. She did not even feel that she must have time to reflect on this.
But perhaps Gaston meant to tell her of his own free will . . .
Then she saw him and Marthe coming that way through the sunshine, under the apple trees, and she went towards him, followed by Roland. And in his hermitage the Chevalier de la Vergne, making a wry face over a sour apple, roused himself to peer down at the sound of voices.
“Everything that there is of a family party!” he observed softly. And with that, judging it time to discover himself, he dropped down from his tree and joined the quartet.
“Oh, there you are, young gentleman,” remarked M. de Trélan. “Mademoiselle and I have been looking for you. How far did you say it was to the sea, Mademoiselle?”
“About five miles, Monsieur le Duc.”