Reine turned pale and made a sign in the affirmative. “Holy Virgin, this must be sorcery!” cried Stephanette, setting the vase back on the table as if it had burned her hand.
Reine could scarcely control her emotion, but said to her:
“A little while ago, when I went out to see my father mount his horse, I promenaded until nightfall in the great walk by the drawbridge, and when I returned I found this flower on this table. My first thought, like yours, was that Chevalier de Berrol had sent it or brought it, although such a flower in this season would be a miracle; I asked if the chevalier had arrived at Maison-Forte, and was told he had not; besides, I had the key of this apartment with me.”
“Then, mademoiselle, it must be magic.”
“I do not know what to think. In examining the vase more attentively, I see the enamelled likeness of the pin that—”
Reine could not say more.
Her face and form betrayed the violent emotion which the memory of that strange day caused her, the day when the foreigner had dared approach his lips to hers.
“We must consult the chaplain or the watchman, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Stephanette.
“No, no, be silent. Do not noise abroad this mystery which frightens me in spite of myself. Let us examine this apartment well; perhaps we may discover something.”
“But this flower, this vase, mademoiselle!”