“Do you think me a conspirator and a companion of cut-throats?” I asked. “I have no public business to bring me here to Grand Pré, father. I got short leave from my general, my first in two years, and I have come to Acadie for my own pleasure and for no reason else. My word!”
He leaned back with an air of relief.
“It is, of course, enough, Paul,” said he heartily. “But in these bad days one knows not what to expect, nor whence the bolt may fall. There is distrust on all sides. As for my unhappy people, they are like to be ground to dust between the upper stone of England and the lower stone of France.” He sighed heavily, looking out upon his dooryard lilacs as if he thought to bid them soon farewell. Then the kindly glance came back into his eyes, and he turned them again upon me.
“But why,” he inquired, “did you go first to Monsieur de Lamourie’s, instead of coming, as of old, at once to me?”
I hesitated; then decided to speak frankly, so far as might seem fitting.
“Grûl warned me,” said I, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie was in danger. I dared not delay.”
“Why she in especial?” he persisted, gravely teasing, as was his right and custom. “Were not monsieur and madame in like peril of the good abbé’s hand?”
“It was her peril that most concerned me,” I said bluntly.
He studied my face, and then, I suppose, read my heart, which I made no effort to veil. The smile went from his lips.
“I fear you love the girl, Paul,” said he very gently. “I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can say. But you are too late. Were you told about the Englishman?”