“To your house, M. le Marquis,” she corrected him quickly.
“Nay, to yours,” he went on, “with the intention of driving you out of your own, that I must have seemed a ruffian when I escorted you to Poissy, that you must look upon me as one who planned your misfortune.”
She gave him a quick glance from under her long dark lashes and then looked down again demurely.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she said, “the cardinal himself told me that you did not wish to claim your own. It is I who should feel reproach though I am innocent; but Mère de Dieu! my father—”
She broke off, covering her face with her hands. Péron looked at her with shining eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “there is only one thing that makes me rejoice in my rank.”
She looked up through her tears. “There is usually much cause for joy in such a case,” she said.
“But not in mine,” he answered softly. “When we first met at Nançay I was the clockmaker’s boy, and there seemed a great gulf fixed between the mistress of Nançay and a poor orphan; and ever since that day it has remained until now, mademoiselle, when I also can claim noble birth.”
He paused, and she did not reply, but the color of a rose glowed faintly in her pale face.
“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “can you forgive me? Can you let me speak the truth? The clockmaker’s boy, the musketeer, and the marquis—all three are one in their love for you.”