“It is not my fault, either, monsieur,” she said gravely. “My uncle has forbidden me to appear in public at present, and I find myself without even my usual liberty. It is a privilege to be allowed to go to church with my woman.”
“This is unnecessarily rigorous treatment, mademoiselle,” I said, “and, of course, I understand it. You will permit me to say so much?”
She had put her veil a little aside, and I could see her face. She raised her eyes to mine now with a half-roguish glance.
“I regard you as my friend, monsieur,” she said softly, and then added with a smile and a blush, “you are a Frenchman.”
“And so is M. de Lambert, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed, quick to seize my opportunity. “May I not take him some little message to reassure him? Is it not possible to arrange this matter—to see him?”
She started, and I saw that she was puzzled and confused by the unexpected proposition.
“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, “speak freely to me. My own daughter is of your age, and indeed I think of her when I look at you. Is it not possible for you to pass this way at this hour again?”
She gave me a quick glance.
“Would you wish it if I were your daughter, monsieur?” she asked, smiling.
“Were you my daughter, mademoiselle,” I replied with decision, “there is one who should not approach you, no matter how exalted his rank.”