“’Tis not so much Chevet I seek,” he said, showing 6 no inclination to pass me, “but one whom I understood was his guest––Monsieur Francois Cassion.”
“The man is here,” I answered quickly, yet unable to conceal my surprise, “but you will find him no friend to Sieur de la Salle.”
“Ah!” and he stared at me intently. “In the name of the saints, what is the meaning of this? You know me then?”
I bowed, yet my eyes remained hidden.
“I knew you once as Monsieur’s friend,” I said, almost regretting my indiscretion, “and have been told you travel in his company.”
“You knew me once!” he laughed. “Surely that cannot be, for never would I be likely to forget. I challenge you, Mademoiselle to speak my name.”
“The Sieur Rene de Artigny, Monsieur.”
“By my faith, the witch is right, and yet in all this New France I know scarce a maid. Nay look up; there is naught to fear from me, and I would see if memory be not new born. Saint Giles! surely ’tis true; I have seen those eyes before; why, the name is on my tongue, yet fails me, lost in the wilderness. I pray you mercy, Mademoiselle!”
“You have memory of the face you say?”
“Ay! the witchery of it; ’tis like a haunting spirit.”