"Ah, no!" The exclamation was impetuous. "It is not a story for you, mademoiselle. An older woman might hear—but to you—"
"Think of me as older," she suggested, so quietly that his resolve was shaken.
"It will be hard to forgive me, I think, afterwards," he deprecated.
"What shall I have to forgive? 'Tis I that ask the tale."
"It is a story of unfortunate love," he said, regarding her narrowly.
Her head drooped farther. "Tell me all now, monsieur."
And so, out of an impulse which he could not have traced to its source, but which proceeded from a spirit of honesty and true chivalry, Claude recounted, with the utmost gentleness and delicacy, some of the incidents which had led to his exile. He said just enough of his cousin to let his listener decide what his feeling for her had been. And Deborah, oddly enough, perhaps, shrank from no part of the recital. She forgot herself, and saw through the eyes of the narrator all that he was describing. In their recent, half-serious talks on French life, the girl had gained a remarkably clear idea of what that life must be; and now this story affected her very differently than it would have done had it been her first glimpse of another existence. It resembled one of her vague dreams, this sitting alone in the cloud-darkened room, the feeble candle mingling its beams with the gloomy daylight; the shadowy figure of the man before her, and his low voice carrying on its story, seeming to be things very far away. And the fresh rain pelted on the windows, while the deep monotone of the thunder made a fitful and fitting accompaniment to the narrative.
"So, mademoiselle, it was there in the chapel that M. de Maurepas delivered me the letter from the King. Henri, madame's brother, was with me. I read the letter just there. I have forgotten if I spoke after it, or if either of them addressed me. Henri, I think, led me out and away, into the town, to our apartment. But next morning it was all very clear. Henri seemed to feel more than I. Later on that day I went to bid madame good-bye. She was very gracious—yes, most gracious."
"How could you go to see her? I should not have done so."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I had to see her. I wished to take her with me as my wife. She did not come. Non. She gave me, instead, to bring away for memory of her—this." Claude put his hand inside his vest and brought out two things, the long white gauntlet, and a letter with the royal seal. As he handed the gage to Deborah, the paper dropped to the floor.