De Bourmont knew, well enough, that a true Scotchman or a Scotchwoman bases his or her opinion of a person upon that person’s opinion of Mary Stuart. So Lady Betty smiled brilliantly at De Bourmont, whose fortune was made from that onward with her, and said: “You are worthy, Monsieur, of the hospitality of the Scotch people.”
“And who is in the suite?” asked Madame Mirabel.
Bastien named several persons, and among others the Abbé de Ronceray,—“the best man and the worst bore! He is always after me about my soul, when I am thinking about my body, and he preaches alms—giving to us when most of us are so devilish poor that we are afraid to meet our washerwomen.”
“He was my old commander,” said De Bourmont, laughing, “and the first thing he did when he became a priest was to order me to go to confession, and I was afraid to refuse. I had merely called to hear the news; it was the evening of that dreadful October day at Versailles in 1789, and I was stationed at Fontainebleau, where we heard all sorts of wild reports,—most of them turned out to be worse than we dreamed,—and, knowing the Abbé had come from Paris that morning, I went to his house ostensibly to pay my respects. Before I knew it, I was on my knees in the confessional. I was his first penitent; and I made him a confession that kept him awake that night, I know.”
Madame Mirabel cackled with laughter. Bastien rose suddenly and went to the window, which he raised a little.
“Pardon, Madame and Mademoiselle—just a breath of air—”
He came back in a moment to his chair looking much as usual, but in pouring out a glass of wine, his hand shook so that the wine was spilled on the cloth.
At the mention of the Abbé de Ronceray’s name Lady Betty turned a little pale, remembering the vague story which credited him with knowing who was the murderer of Angus Macdonald. She said nothing, however, only wishing in her heart that some other Abbé were at Holyrood instead of this one, whose very name was a painful reminder of a terrible tragedy in her life. De Bourmont, whose eyes were quick, saw that the subject was an unfortunate one, for Lady Betty sighed instead of smiling at his little story; so he turned it very aptly and began to sing the praises of Edinburgh and Scotland in general. Usually, nobody was sharper at finding out the meaning of words than Lady Betty; but, being a Scotchwoman, she fell directly into De Bourmont’s trap, and smiled and blushed with pleasure, to the vast delight of that young hypocrite.
De Bourmont was so gay and full of life that he made the evening charming. In spite of his gayety, though, Lady Betty saw, plainly enough, a restlessness in his manner which showed that the life he was leading did not altogether suit him. And presently, when Madame Mirabel and Bastien were deep in recalling the terrible incidents that had happened to those left behind in France, De Bourmont and Lady Betty began to talk confidentially, and his dissatisfaction was plain.
“We occupy ourselves with trifles here,” he said bitterly, “because else we should go mad. Think,—almost every Frenchman is fighting for France, and here we are, and we can neither fight for her nor against her. That is it which keeps me awake at night, and inspires me to all the desperate schemes of amusement that we can find in this sober town.”