"Dishonour!" She echoed the word, uncomprehending, unbelieving.
He remained bent over her hand. She could not see his face. "Have you never heard," he said, "of ex-Lieutenant de Montville—the man whom all France execrated three years ago as a traitor?"
"Yes," said Chris. "I've heard of him, of course. But"—doubtfully—"I don't read the papers much. I didn't know what he was supposed to have done. I only knew that everyone in England said he hadn't."
The Frenchman sighed heavily. "The people in England did not know," he said.
"No? Then you think he was guilty?"
He stood up sharply and faced her. "I know that he was innocent," he said. "But it could not be proved. That is what the English could never realize. And—chérie—I was that man. I was Lieutenant de Montville."
Chris was gazing at him in amazement. "You!" she said incredulously.
"I," he said. "They accused me of treason. They thought that I would sell my own gun—my own gun. They sent me to prison—mon Dieu! I know not how I survived. I suffered until it seemed that I could suffer no more. And then they gave me my liberty—they banished me from France. I came to England—and I starved."
"You starved, Bertie!" Her blue eyes widened with horrified pity. "You!" she said. "You!"
He smiled with wistful humour. "Men more worthy than I have done the same," he said.