"Alphonse, thou naughty one, thou must not rise," she exclaimed. "Rest at thine ease on thy cushions of down, and I will talk to the stranger with the good face in the other room. M'sieur Desmond will divert thee, my little Comte." Here she pressed a light kiss on his forehead and danced out of the room.
The first thing that Fergus felt when he found himself quite alone with the Comte St. Juste was the extraordinary likeness the old man bore to little Margot. It is true that it was a likeness between extreme youth and extreme age. Nevertheless, it was there. The shape of the face, the aristocratic poise of the head were repeated in the old man and the young child. There was a flush of childish pleasure now on the old Comte's cheeks. He spoke in a hurried voice,
"Behold! are you indeed a Desmond?"
"Undoubtedly. I am the eldest son of The Desmond of Desmondstown and in our country 'The' is the proudest of all titles."
"All, ah," said the Comte, "I know it not, I know it not. But see—I speak the English tongue. You doubtless bring me information. I have been long, long pining for my grandchild. Do you know whether the little one born to my Henri was son or daughter? All in vain have I made enquiries, but I have dreamt of that little one, by day and by night. Have you brought me news of her—of him?"
Fergus felt his heart sink within him.
"There is a child," he said, "a daughter. She is not so very young now—she will be twelve in ten months. She is beautiful. She came to us of her own accord and The Desmond wants to keep her."
"Mais non, non," exclaimed the old Comte. "Is she not the child of my son, my only son? And if she is eleven, she will ere long be marriageable. Ho, sir, no, M'sieur Desmond, I will not give her up."
"I thought, sir, we might pay you," began Desmond, who was not very tactful, and longed beyond words to have the clergyman by his side.