“And our glove?”
“Madame la Marquise, if I may trust my memory, M. d’Henriel was not in official costume.”
Renée allowed herself to be reassured.
A ceremonious visit that M. Livret insisted on was paid to the chapel of Diane, where she had worshipped and laid her widowed ashes, which, said M. Livret, the fiends of the Revolution would not let rest.
He raised his voice to denounce them.
It was Roland de Croisnel that answered: “The Revolution was our grandmother, monsieur, and I cannot hear her abused.”
Renée caught her brother by the hand. He stepped out of the chapel with Beauchamp to embrace him; then kissed Renée, and, remarking that she was pale, fetched flooding colour to her cheeks. He was hearty air to them after the sentimentalism they had been hearing. Beauchamp and he walked like loving comrades at school, questioning, answering, chattering, laughing,—a beautiful sight to Renée, and she looked at Agnès d’Auffray to ask her whether “this Englishman” was not one of them in his frankness and freshness.
Roland stopped to turn to Renée. “I met d’Henriel on my ride here,” he said with a sharp inquisitive expression of eye that passed immediately.
“You rode here from Tourdestelle, then,” said Renée.
“Has he been one of the company, marquise?”