"I am Aline de Rochambeau."
Ange Desaix gave a great start. She had guessed,—but this was certainty, and the shock took her breath. From the chair a minute, tiny hand was beckoning.
"Rochambeau, Rochambeau. I know all the Rochambeau—Réné de Rochambeau was my first cousin, for I was a Montenay born, you know. He and his brother were the talk of the town when I was young. They married the twin heiresses of old M. de Vivonne, and every one sang the catch which M. de Coulanges made—
Fiers et beaux, les Rochambeau;
Fiere et bonnes, les belles Vivonne.'
Whose daughter are you?"
Aline knelt by the chair and kissed the little claw where a diamond shone from the gold circlet which was so much too loose.
"Réné de Rochambeau was my grandfather," she said.
"Well, he would have thought you a pretty girl. Beauty never came amiss to a Rochambeau, and you have your share. We are kinsfolk, Mademoiselle, and in other circumstances, I should have wished—have wished—" she drew her hand away impatiently and put it to her head. "Who said that Ange Desaix was here? Why does she come now? Réné is dead, and I have no more sons; I am really a little at a loss."
The words which should have sounded pathetic came in staccato mockery, and Aline sprang up in indignation, but even as she moved Mlle Ange spoke.
"Let the past alone, Madame," she said slowly. "Believe, if you can, that I have come to help you. You are not alone?"