“You are travelling to Paris?” he asked.
“I told you,” she replied, with a kind of delicate directness. “My sister is maid-of-honour to the Queen Marie Leckinska, and as she is to be married I am going to take her place. But we are delayed, it seems. M. de Belleisle advises us to stay in the Hradcany till the spring.”
“Prague,” said the Marquis, “is full of travellers and refugees. No one would willingly journey this weather.”
“I would, save that we have lost our sledges, our horses, our servants, our escort. Sometimes it is colder than this in Russia.”
“You will find it dreary in Prague, Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis kindly; “but when you reach Paris you will be recompensed.”
She fixed her large, clear and light brown eyes on his face.
“I told you I had heard what you said, Monsieur. Are you usually so indifferent to eavesdroppers?”
“I said nothing that anyone might not hear—though not perhaps discuss,” he answered gently.
“You mean you will not talk of these things to a woman!” she exclaimed quickly. “And I suppose I seem a barbarian to you. But perhaps I could understand as well as that young officer.” Her voice was slow and sad. “I come from an heroic and unfortunate country, Monsieur. I also have dreamt of glory.”
Still he would not speak; her frankness was abashed before his gentle reserve.