The abbé started a little, but, seeing her quite composed, though a little pale, answered her in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable.
“A major of artillery. He frankly avowed his royalist principles to General Bonaparte, who assured him it should not stand in the way of his promotion, and it has not. But you would scarcely know him now, he is so changed.”
“How, Monsieur l’Abbé?” asked Sister Claire, turning still paler, but not losing her calmness.
“Grave, quiet, taciturn. You remember what a gay dare-devil he was once? He looks many years older, and in a little more than a year he has grown as gray as I am. He is, however, a useful and brilliant officer.”
“A useful and brilliant officer!” repeated Sister Claire, dreamily. “Then he ought to be content. None of those who live in the world can hope to be more than that.”
Then there was a little pause. The abbé felt a slight awkwardness in speaking of De Bourmont before her who had once been the Lady Betty Stair. And then a new courage leaped into Sister Claire’s glowing eyes, and she said, after a moment:—
“Monsieur l’Abbé, I wish to tell you something about Monsieur de Bourmont, which you may at some time convey to him, and it may give him comfort. You will understand that I ask you to regard what I tell you as a sacred confidence. You remember, no doubt, the terrible circumstances of the death of my only brother, Angus Macdonald, of the Scottish Guard?”
“Quite well, my child. It was well impressed upon my memory.”
Sister Claire, for the first time, faltered a little, and when she resumed, her voice was tremulous.
“I never associated Monsieur de Bourmont with that tragedy of my youth until—until just before I left Holyrood Palace. But I found out—quite by accident—one of those terrible accidents of life—that—that—Monsieur de Bourmont killed my brother.” Sister Claire stopped, sighed, and passed her hand over her pale face.