“Tiernay.”
“Tiernay; that’s not a French name?”
“Not originally; we were Irish once.”
“Irish!” said he, in a different tone from what he had hitherto used. “Any relative of a certain Comte Maurice de Tiernay, who once served in the Royal Guard?”
“His son, sir.”
“What—his son! Art certain of this, lad? You remember your mother’s name, then; what was it?”
“I never knew which was my mother,” said I. “Mademoiselle de la Lasterie, or—”
He did not suffer me to finish, but throwing his arms around my neck, pressed me to his bosom.
“You are little Maurice, then,” said he, “the son of my old and valued comrade! Only think of it, Laure—I was that boy’s godfather.”