“At last I have found you!” he cried, forgetting all but his joy at the sight of her.
“You must pardon me, M. le Marquis,” she said, sweeping him a curtsey, “I did not look for visitors.”
The formality of her tone and her proud manner, reminding him of their first encounter on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, chilled him. He reflected that it was possible that she was not only not glad to see him but actually displeased. The thought that he had thrust himself upon her covered him with confusion.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I sent a message to you through Père Antoine and I was deeply pained that you thought it best to quit your house on my account.”
“Not my house, monsieur, but yours,” she answered with proud calm.
“Yours,” he said softly, “for I have never set foot in either since you left them, Mademoiselle de Nançay.”
“You give me a false name,” she said, and there was a break in her voice; “I am Renée de Marsou. It is you who are a de Nançay.”
“I am Péron the musketeer,” he answered gently, “for I will never bear the title save under one condition.”
There was a pause; she stood proudly, her golden head erect and her eyes upon the ground, while he looked at her with a flushed face, embarrassed and uncertain; the old gulf seemed to have yawned between them. He did not realize his own exaltation and her mortification; she seemed to him still the great demoiselle and he the soldier of fortune.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “it pains me to think how you must interpret my conduct. It seems as if I came to your house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre—”