"So it would appear, from my case," returned Claude, dryly.
"Again pardon me—but—have you a document of exile with you?"
Claude hesitated. The last sentence in that royal letter was the most awkward possible thing for a man who wished, in all sincerity, to marry. Long he studied young Trevor's face, and he saw the distrust therein growing with every instant. At last, with an imperceptible shrug, and a sigh, he took from his other pocket the small, worn paper with its red-brown seals that he had read to Deborah.
"It is in French, monsieur. You doubtless read it?"
Vincent took the paper scornfully, and began its perusal with a facility due to intercourse with Aimé St. Quentin. When he finished it, his mother held out her hand for the letter, and, as she read, Vincent, looking squarely into the other's eyes, said, slowly:
"You, monsieur, were the gentleman of whose marriage with your cousin the King did not approve?"
Claude, returning the look eye for eye, bowed.
"And who is this cousin?"
"The Duchesse de Châteauroux."
"Good Heaven!"