I had had the history of the great French revolution, at least one side of it, drilled into me ever since my advent at Mountain Brook. I had learned that my uncle had escaped to America from France, where he had fought for the King, and that my mother and her twin sister had also managed to get away from the frightful prison of La Conciergerie with their lives, but that my grandfather, two uncles, and an aunt by marriage had all lost their heads by the guillotine for the sole reason that they were rich, very well dressed, and very polite indeed, so far as I could make out.
I had learned by heart the family histories of any number of the great noble families of France, and all of this I considered most dull work indeed, and wasted time. However, the story that I related to Mary Tanner, as we sat on the top rail of the fence, seemed to interest her greatly.
"You see," I was saying, after I had finished spinning the long yarn, "my name is not John Hurdiss at all; it is something else."
"What is it?" asked the girl.
"I have no idea," I replied; "but my uncle always calls me Jean, which means John, and, to be honest, I don't think he knows himself."
"I don't see why he shouldn't be able to tell," replied Mary, "if he knows so much about other people."
"No more do I," I answered. "But I don't care. John Hurdiss is good enough for me."
Now, the fact of the matter was this, and I may as well state it here as afterwards: I had guessed about the truth. My uncle did not really know my name, and for this reason:
You see, as I have told, my grandfather was the Marquis de Brienne (I have forgotten to set down that Gaston always called my uncle "Monsieur le Marquis," or something that might be resolved into that). Well, the old gentleman (my ancestor) had three children—the present proprietor of the Château de Belair on Mountain Brook, and twin daughters, Hortense and Hélène, who afterwards married two of the well-dressed and well-hated ones at a time when they had more titles than gold.