It was the same man, of course. Dimly she heard about Lucien and Artamène and the “Abbé,” of the disbanding, of greater plans for the future, and it was not for some moments that she came back entirely to her room and her attractive refugee, and found that the young man, leaning slightly forward in the big chair, was asking her a question.
“Do you not think, Madame de Vidal, that you might add to your never-to-be-forgotten kindness by telling me in your turn, something about yourself? You—pardon me—you are no concierge! You are as gently born as I!”
“You think so? Well, the world has been upside down these ten years, has it not? Ten years ago—if you were old enough then to give a thought to the future—you would not have expected to grow up a house-breaker, Monsieur Roland!”
But from the way he looked at her then she could almost see his young and romantic mind working, and probably making up wild stories about her. She decided to present him with one ready-made, and not so far from the truth.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “it is useless to deny that I am gently born, but I trust that my employer, the Deputy who has charge of the château, is not aware of the fact. For him I am the aunt of his cousin, Mme Tessier. My late husband, an émigré, died abroad, and I was obliged to earn my living, like many a better woman. I used to earn it by needlework; now I do so by looking after Mirabel. There you have my history in the proverbial nutshell. And now”—she glanced at the little clock on the shelf, “it is nearly time to start for the Allée des Soupirs.”
The colour leapt into Roland’s face. “You have been so divinely kind, Madame, that I dare ask one more kindness. Something—the merest trifle—as a memento of what indeed I shall need no memento to keep in lifelong memory!”
It was a long time since young men had asked Valentine de Trélan for souvenirs. That they had asked in vain was neither here nor there.
“But, my child,” she responded with a maternal air, “I have nothing to give you . . . unless you would like a thimble or a pair of scissors!”
“I should like anything,” said the petitioner humbly.
“I suppose,” said she, rising, “that what you would like best would be some of this semi-mythical treasure.—Roland!” she said, struck by a sudden thought, “promise me that you will not come back after it when you are better! Promise me!”