“Which did not haunt long, I warrant. I am Adele la Chesnayne, Monsieur.”
He stepped back, his eyes on mine, questioningly. For an instant I believed the name even brought no familiar sound; then his face brightened, and his eyes smiled, as his lips echoed the words.
“Adele la Chesnayne! Ay! now I know. Why ’tis no less than a miracle. It was a child I thought of under that name––a slender, brown-eyed girl, as blithesome as a bird. No, I had not forgotten; only the magic of three years has made of you a woman. Again and again have I questioned in Montreal and Quebec, but no one seemed to know. At the convent they said your father fell in Indian skirmish.”
“Yes; ever since then I have lived here, with my uncle, Hugo Chevet.”
“Here!” he looked about, as though the dreariness of it was first noticed. “Alone? Is there no other woman?”
I shook my head, but no longer looked at him, for fear he might see the tears in my eyes.
“I am the housekeeper, Monsieur. There was nothing else for me. In France, I am told, my father’s people were well born, but this is not France, and there was no choice. Besides I was but a child of fourteen.”
“And seventeen, now, Mademoiselle,” and he took my hand gallantly. “Pardon if I have asked questions which bring pain. I can understand much, for in Montreal I heard tales of this Hugo Chevet.”