“I have it in my heart to wish that—that it were otherwise,” she said, her cheeks reddening under his gaze. “If it were not that I account myself in honour bound to wed M. le Vicomte—”
“Stop!” he interrupted her. He had caught at last the drift of what she was saying. “There is no need for any comedy, Suzanne. Enough of that had we at Boisvert.”
“It is not comedy,” she cried with heat. “It was not altogether comedy at Boisvert.”
“True,” he said, wilfully misunderstanding her that he might the more easily dismiss the subject, “it went nearer to being tragedy.” Then abruptly he asked her:
“Where are you residing?”
She paused before replying. She still wanted to protest that some affection for him dwelt in her heart, although curbed (to a greater extent even than she was aware) by the difference in their stations, and checked by her plighted word to Ombreval. At last, abandoning a purpose which his countenance told her would be futile:
“I am staying with my old nurse at Choisy,” she answered him. “Henriette Godelliere is her name. She is well known in the village, and seems in good favour with the patriots, so that I account myself safe. I am believed to be her niece from the country.”
“Hum!” he snorted. “The Citoyenne Godelliere's niece from the country in silks?”
“That is what someone questioned, and she answered that it was a gown plundered from the wardrobe of some emigrated aristocrats.”
“Have a care, Suzanne,” said he. “The times are dangerous, and it is a matter of a week ago since a man was lanterne for no other reason than because he was wearing gloves, which was deemed an aristocratic habit. Come, Mademoiselle, let us gather up your gems. You were going without them some moments ago.”