“Why was I not told before?” she asked frantically.
“We had not the courage,” the old man confessed. “And if you love him——”
“Oh, if I love him!” she interrupted. “I loved the Luc de Clapiers that was!”
“He is still the same in spirit, still my son, still your lover. Why, this is a chance for you.” He spoke with piteous eagerness. “You used to say how you wished you could prove your love. Do you not remember? Luc told me once—he spoke like a man who holds the Eucharist in his hands when he told me that you had said you wished you could prove—— This is your chance.”
Her heaving bosom, her eyes, the rise and fall of colour in her cheeks bespoke desperation.
“And you have told me again—just now, that you love him.”
“Monseigneur, give me time—let me think. This is very terrible. I pity him—oh, how I pity him!”
“Pity him! You should be proud of him.”
“Yes, that too—but I am distracted—give me time.”
“There is no time. He is coming home to-morrow. There is your chance, Mademoiselle; you must meet him—as if—he were the same.”