"And these boors have corrupted it to Lessie!" I almost shouted.
"Zey couldn't 'member Celeste," smiled Father John.
For a time I was silent, gazing at that vision in my mind which bore the sweet name of Celeste instead of the meaningless one of Lessie.
"Has she, then, no rights in the matter?" I persisted, and at the words I knew my voice had changed. Father John's candid and matter-of-fact revelation had filled me all up, somehow. I am aware there was no good reason why this should be, but people deeply in love have a constant abhorrence of anything and everything remotely bordering on reason.
"Should she, m'sieu, seek ze inf'mation, I sink I should tell 'er."
Sweetly grave and courteous were the words, and even in my impatience I recognized their justness.
"Very well, father. But I must ask you another question which I trust you can answer without offense to your conscience. Was Lessie's—was Celeste's father a man of learning; a man who moved along the higher walks of life, or was he simply a countryman?"
Only for a moment he hesitated.
"He was ze gran' gen'leman in manner—ze scholar—ze sinker. His heart was black!"
"It must have been," I breathed, as I rose.