"Approach, girl," said the countess, "come nearer me. You have a very fair skin for a girl from the Morbihan."
"My mother, madame, was an English woman," said I, courtseying lower; to have said a Scots woman would have served my purpose better in France, for the countess said, sharply—
"So much the worse—so much the worse, girl! You have, however, I hope, been well instructed in all religious duties, and never omit mass or confession."
"Mon Père Celestine will answer for me," said I, confident that the good priest would protect me, whatever came to pass.
"Très bien! I expect him to visit us in a few days, together with the Comte de Boisguiller, Commandant of St. Malo." (This reply, like a double-headed shot, was not very restoring), "but why do you require a second attendant, Jacqueline—is not Angelique enough for you? What is your name?"
"Basile, madame, so please you."
"Basile what?"
(The deuce take it! I had not thought of a name.)
"Basile Gantelet," said Angelique, replying for me.
"Your parents and family?——"