"Madame la Comtesse is right, as always; she is certainly one of us," thought De Lancy.
"Madame la Comtesse de Matigny begs the honour of your acquaintance," he pursued; "she had the pleasure of knowing your parents."
"Monsieur?"
"Do I not address Mlle de Rochambeau?"
Surprise, and a sense of terror at hearing her name, so long concealed, brought the colour to her face.
"That is my name," she murmured.
"She is always right—she is wonderful," repeated the Marquis to himself, as he piloted his charge across the room.
He made the presentation in form.
"Madame la Comtesse, permit that I present to you Mademoiselle de Rochambeau."
Aline bent to the white, wrinkled hand, but was raised and embraced.