“’Tis certainly not so pleasant as in the summer,” Péron replied dreamily; “I can remember my first ride from Paris on this road, when the fields were green and the violets bloomed at Poissy.”
“You are familiar with this road then?” she remarked, giving him a keen glance; “you know the way to Nançay?”
“It was to Nançay that I went, mademoiselle,” he replied, “with my foster-father, the clockmaker of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”
For a moment mademoiselle was silent, then she looked at him and laughed a soft little laugh unlike the unmusical sounds with which she had mocked him.
“I know you,” she said; “I was sure that I had seen you before; you are little Péron.”
“Ay, mademoiselle,” he replied, with a smile, “and I have still the bunch of violets from Nançay.”
He could not see her face behind her mask, but he saw a little flush of color come across her chin and throat.
“The violets of Poissy, sir,” she said lightly. “I little thought that you would be the one to take me there against my will; truly, the tables are turned.”
His face flushed now and he was tempted to tell her that had he not come she would have been in worse hands; but that would be an appeal to her gratitude, and he held his peace.
“That is my misfortune, mademoiselle,” he said, “rather than my fault.”