“Mademoiselle should have asked me to tell her the one story that I know by heart,� he replied, his voice and manner changing in an instant and full now of courtesy and propitiation.
“And what is that, monsieur?� she asked shortly; the color was warm in her cheeks and her blue eyes flashed dangerously.
“The old story of my love for you, Rosaline,� he said eagerly, advancing nearer the sundial, the flock of doves rising with a whir of wings as he approached.
She was unmoved, however, only averting her face.
“I have spoken to madame,� he added, “and now I speak to you.�
“And what did Madame de St. Cyr say?� she demanded, giving him a questioning glance.
“She told me that so great was her love for her only grandchild that she would never force your choice, and therefore it remained with you to decide for yourself.� He spoke with feeling, his bold blue eyes on her lovely face. “I trust that you are not wholly indifferent to me, Rosaline,� he continued, “and I can give you much. My beautiful princess is shut up here in a ruinous old château. I will show you the world—Paris—Versailles. No beauty of the court will compare with the rose of Languedoc.�
He paused, carried away by his own eloquence, for M. de Baudri was not given to sentiment. Rosaline had listened with patience and composure, and she answered him in a tone of quiet amusement.
“Monsieur does me too much honor,� she said. “The château is indeed ruinous, but ’tis my home, and, strange to say, I do not long for the splendors of the court—or the flattery of the courtiers.�
“But my love for you, mademoiselle!� he protested in surprise; surely this child did not realize the honor he paid her. “I offer you my heart and hand.�