Angèle’s heart fluttered to her mouth, but the soft, simple music helped her, and she began with eyes bent upon the ground, her linked fingers clasping and unclasping slowly.
“I was born at Rouen, your high Majesty,” she said. “My mother was a cousin of the Prince of Passy, the great Protestant—”
“Of Passy—ah!” said Elizabeth, amazed. “Then you are Protestants indeed; and your face is no invention, but cometh honestly. No, no, ’tis no accident—God rest his soul, great Passy!”
“She died—my mother—when I was a little child. I can but just remember her—so brightly quiet, so quick, so beautiful. In Rouen life had little motion; but now and then came stir and turmoil, for war sent its message into the old streets, and our captains and our peasants poured forth to fight for the King. Once came the King and Queen—Francis and Mary—”
Elizabeth drew herself upright with an exclamation.
“Ah, you have seen her—Mary of Scots,” she said, sharply. “You have seen her?”
“As near as I might touch her with my hand, as near as is your high Majesty. She spoke to me—my mother’s father was in her train; as yet we had not become Huguenots, nor did we know her Majesty as now the world knows. Then came the King and Queen, and that was the beginning.”
She paused, and looked shyly at Elizabeth, as though she found it hard to tell her story.
“And the beginning, it was—?” said Elizabeth, impatient and intent.