"Sit down, my child!" he said. "Does it matter greatly how a name is pronounced? It is the same name, and I pronounced it thus, not without a reason. Sit down, and have peace!"
There was authority as well as kindness in his voice. I sat down, still trembling and blushing. Father L'Homme-Dieu went on quietly, as if nothing had happened.
"It was for the marquis's sake that I gave your name its former—and correct—pronunciation, my son Jacques. If I mistake not, he is of the same part of France from which your ancestors came. Huguenots of Blanque, am I not right, marquis?"
I was conscious that the stranger, whom I was inwardly accusing as a pretentious puppy, a slip of a dead and worthless tree, was looking at me intently; my eyes seemed drawn to his whether I would or no. So meeting those blue eyes, there passed as it were a flash from them into mine, a flash that warmed and lightened, as a smile broke over his face.
"D'Arthenay!" he said, in a tone that seemed to search for some remembrance. "D'Arthenay, tenez foi! n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"
I started. The words were the motto of my father's house. They were engraved on the stone which marked the grave of my grandfather many times back, Jacques, Sieur D'Arthenay. Seeing my agitation, the marquis leaned forward eagerly. He was full of quick, light gestures, that somehow brought my mother back to me.
"But, we are neighbours!" he cried. "We must be friends, M. D'Arthenay. Your tower—it is a noble ruin—stands not a league from my château in Blanque. The Ste. Valeries and the D'Arthenays were always friends, since Adam was, and till the Grand Monarque separated them with his accursed Revocation. Monsieur, that I am enchanted at this rencounter! La bonne aventure, oh gai! n'est-ce pas, mon père?"
There was no resisting his eager gaiety. And when he quoted the nursery song that my mother used to sing, my stubborn resentment—at what? who can say?—broke and melted away, and I was smiling back into the bright, merry eyes. Once more he held out his hand, and this time I took it gladly. Father L'Homme-Dieu looked on in delight; it was a good moment.
After that the talk flowed freely. I found that the young marquis, having come on a pleasure tour to the United States, had travelled thus far out of the general route to look up the graves of some of his mother's people, who had come out with Baron Castine, but had left him, as my ancestor had done, on account of his marriage with the Indian princess. They were the Belleforts of Blanque.
"Bellefort!" I cried. "That name is on several stones in our old burying-ground. The Belforts of our village are their descendants, Father L'Homme-Dieu."