“You are a soldier of France, Monsieur de Artigny tells me.”
“Yes, Madame, of the Regiment Carignan-Salliers,” he answered.
“I wonder have you served long? My father was an officer in that command––Captain la Chesnayne.”
The expression on the man’s face changed magically.
“You the daughter of Captain la Chesnayne,” he exclaimed, the words bursting forth uncontrolled, “and married to Cassion! how can this be?”
“You knew him then––my father?”
“Ay, Madame; I was with him at the Richelieu, at the village of the Mohawks; and at Bois le Blanc, where he died. I am Jacques Barbeau, a soldier for twenty years; did he not speak to you of me?”
“I was but a girl when he was killed, and we seldom met, for he was usually on campaign. Yet what do you mean by thus expressing surprise at my marriage to Monsieur Cassion?”
He hesitated, evidently regretting his impulsive speech, and glancing from my face into the stern eyes of De Artigny.
“Monsieur, Madame, I spoke hastily; it was not my place.”