Garde was flooded, all through her being, with feelings of love and penitence. To think that she had entertained for a moment a notion that Adam—and yet, stay, there were the others,—dames and countesses. They could not all have been mere tots of children. Then she wondered if it were fair, thus to try to trap the poor fellow and take advantage of him, to make him confess these subjects as to another man. Of course for his own good it might be better to let him tell. And she would understand him so much more thoroughly.
“Was the French damsel only three also?” she summoned courage to inquire.
“Oh dear, no. She was three and ninety, but still sprightly in the minuet and with eyes that could easily have lighted the sun again, had he chanced to go out. I shouldn’t have been sorry to have her for a mother—except that I flatter myself I had a better one—once upon a time.”
Garde would have felt like a coward indeed, had she desired to ask him of any of the others. Having done him a little measure of injustice, she made it up to him by loving him the more, now that she found him so innocent. Nevertheless she had ears to listen with when he volunteered some information about the countess he had seen and admired at the court of Charles.
It turned out, however, that he had merely seen her safely married to one of his royal friends, for whose happiness he had the most sincere of wishes.
Garde felt her spirit of daring and merriment return. It was so tempting to play around the point of her identity that she could not altogether resist the impulse of her nature, to keep him talking.
“I seem to be happy in reminding you of many persons,” she said. “But I think I would rather remind you of some one else. Since you claim to be so much in love, it would compliment me more if I could remind you of your Mistress Garde.”
“Maybe you would,” said Adam, “only that I am getting so near to Boston that such a reminiscence, in a boy, would be sheer impertinence.”