We watched him go down the grape arbor to the canoe, and no one spoke but Cassion.
“Pouf! he thinks well of himself, that young cockerel, and ’twill likely be my part to clip his spurs. Still ’tis good policy to have him with us, for ’tis a long journey. What say you, Chevet?”
“That he is one to watch,” answered my uncle gruffly. “I trust none of La Salle’s brood.”
“No, nor I, for the matter of that, but I am willing to pit my brains against the best of them. Francois Cassion is not likely to be caught asleep, my good Hugo.”
He turned about, and glanced questioningly into my face.
“And so, Mademoiselle, it did not altogether please you to be my guest at the ball? Perchance you preferred some other gallant?”
The sunlight, flickering through the leaves, rested on his face, and brought out the mottled skin of dissipation, the thin line of his cruel lips, the insolent stare of his eyes. I felt myself shrink, dreading he might touch me; yet dominating all else was the thought of De Artigny––the message of his glance, the secret meaning of his pledge––the knowledge that he would be there. So I smiled, and made light of his suspicion.
“It was but surprise, Monsieur,” I said gaily “for I had not dreamed of such an honor. ’Tis my wish to go; see, I have been working on a new gown, and now I must work the faster.”
I swept him a curtsey, smiling to myself at the expression of his face, and before he could speak had disappeared within. Bah! I would escape those eyes and be alone to dream.