"How does it fit?" he inquired anxiously
"It is without doubt large at present for m'sieu, but m'sieu has been ill. After a while it will fit better."
"And how do you think I look in it?" he continued, gazing with fringeless expressionless eyes on her vacant but concerned countenance. "You see, to meet these gentlemen I must at least try to appear as well as they do. A Sieur de Clairville must guard the appearance at all costs! Where is my sister, Pauline-Archange—why does she not come and assist me in the entertainment of the Court? Of the Court, do I say?"
Here Clairville drew himself up as well as he could, and winking at his nurse gravely informed her that the most Christian King, Louis of France, being in North America for the good of his health, might call at the manor to see its master at any moment.
"If you will be very secret, my good woman, I will tell you this further, but it must be between us only—His Most Christian Majesty of France is just recovering from the 'Pic'. But do not alarm yourself; I have not been with him much. Fear not, madame, neither for yourself nor me."
Madame clasped her hands and looked upwards; she seemed to be crying, and yet she shed no tears. She knew there was something wrong. She was wrong. The Sieur de Clairville was wrong. The old habit of prayer, fervid, poetic, Catholic prayer, asserted itself and accordingly the mystic rosary of Our Lady returned to her.
"Priez pour nous, sainte Mère de Dieu. Mère aimable, priez pour nous. Mère adorable, priez pour nous. Vierge puissante, priez! Vierge fidèle, priez pour nous. Rose mystérieuse, priez pour nous. Maison d'or, Etoile du matin, priez pour nous. Santé des infirmes, priez pour nous."
Henry Clairville listened. Gradually he sank into the chair, and the tears, the slow, painful, smarting tears of weak mind and middle age—coursed down his thin, pitted cheeks. Madame sat down too and sobbed.
"Oh, have I offended you, m'sieu? Why did I pray? What makes us pray at all? Is there One who hears a poor woman like me? But she might hear you, m'sieu, a grand gentleman like you—and so I prayed."
"A grand gentleman! Thank you—madame, thank you," said he, trembling. "I believe I am that, or I was once. I have been very ill, I see. You must not take any notice if I go a little out of my head; it is nothing; Pauline is well accustomed to it, and so may you be if you remain here long. Only be lively with me, be always lively and pray aloud no more. I do not like these prayers. But why are you here? Where are my servants—Maman Archambault, Antoine, and the rest?"