'My crime—my error, Countess,' said I, angrily; 'to the point, madame.'
'You fell asleep on the terrace at Versailles, M. Blane, under an elm-tree. The King passed near you, and saw the miniature of a lady openly suspended from your neck. He loves pretty women after his own maudlin fashion, and curiosity prompted him to draw near. He recognised my features, and then jealousy urged him to send you here, where, but for me, you might remain with many others until France hails as Louis XIV. the infant son of Anne of Austria; and I fear that your black, curly hair would be silvery enough by that time, my dear M. Blane.'
'I should attempt to escape, or perish!'
'Escape!—for what purpose?'
'To return home.'
'Home—poor M. Blane, you forget—'
'True, madame,' said I, clasping my hands; 'alas! proscribed and expatriated, I dare not; but I can turn my steps to Holland.'
'To make love to clumsy vrows, and Dutch dairy-maids with coarse red fingers—to learn the mysteries of cheese-making and tulip-rearing?'
'No, madame! to fight against France, perhaps—to serve under the banner of the Scottish Brigade.'
'Hush—if you value life!'