"Yes, monsieur," she whispered.
Suddenly she broke into a low laugh, and tried to draw her hand away from mine.
"My name is not Pelagie," she said.
"Not Pelagie!" I exclaimed, thinking she was playing me some merry trick, and wishing she had chosen some other time to play it.
"No, monsieur," she said soberly. "They named me Pelagie when they brought me over sea, but my name is Louise Adelaide, for my aunt the Abbess of Remiremont."
I was silent for a moment, for I liked not to think of little Pelagie by any other name. Then I gently took her hand again and raised it to my lips:
"Louise Adelaide," I said, "may do for a princess of Condé, but you will always be my little Pelagie to me," and so great was the love in my heart that my voice trembled as I spoke, and we were both very still for a little, while her hand lay quietly in mine.
Suddenly a thought struck me:
"Pelagie," I said, "you have never spoken my name; I do not believe you know what it is."
"Yes, I do, monsieur." She looked up at me saucily. "Shall I tell you what it is?"