“M. le Marquis,” she said proudly, “you say this to me because you pity my condition. I am a friendless orphan, the child of a disgraced father, with only a stained name to bear; I am no longer Renée de Nançay.”
“I told you but now,” he said, “that I would never bear my title except on one condition, and that, mademoiselle, is that you bear it too. Unless you will be the Marquise de Nançay, I will be still Péron the musketeer.”
She stood looking at him, her face turning from red to white and her lips trembling.
“M. le Marquis,” she cried, with a sudden outburst of passionate emotion, “you pity me!”
He caught her hands and covered them with kisses.
“Renée,” he said, “I love you! Have you no love for me?”
She hung her head. “Monsieur,” she said, “you forget my father and yours!”
“Renée,” he answered tenderly, “I love you, and that suffices.” He drew her toward him, trying to look into her face. “My darling,” he whispered, “do you scorn the marquis too?”
She looked up into his face, her own aglow despite the tears in her eyes.
“It was not a marquis I loved,” she answered very low, “but—the cardinal’s musketeer!”