“I am Madame des Ormeaux; as you should know, being inmate of this house and evidently my husband’s brother.”
“Mademoiselle de Granville has but one brother,” said the priest.
“The Sieur des Ormeaux is her brother.”
“There is no Sieur des Ormeaux.” He smiled in making the assertion, his lips parting indulgently.
“I mean Dollard, commandant of the fort of Montreal.”
“There is no Dollard, commandant of the fort of Montreal. I am the Abbé de Granville.”
Claire silently observed him, gathering her convictions. The priest leaned towards her, rubbing his hands.
“This misguided soldier, sometimes called Dollard, he is but a bad dream of mine, my poor child. So keen is your beauty that it still pierces the recollection. In my last dream my conscience tells me I worked some harm to you. Return to your family, mademoiselle, and forgive me. I have become myself again, and these holy tokens recall me to my duty and my vows.”
“I know who you are,” said Claire. “You are Mademoiselle de Granville.”