Berthe had four gentlemen in attendance on her: a tall, distingué-looking Austrian, who spoke to no one, but shot vinegar out of his eyes at a handsome young Breton on whose arm Berthe leant; a dark Englishman, who made up in vivacity what he lacked in height; and another Englishman, whose notablest idiosyncrasy was an eye-glass that seemed to be a fixture, so faithfully did it stick in the right eye of the wearer, morning, noon, and night. Over and above this guard of honor the beautiful widow was accompanied by Hélène de Karodel. She introduced the two girls, who walked on together, while the gentlemen and the three married women followed.
Hélène and Mademoiselle de Galliac had not proceeded far when Monsieur de Chassedot broke away from the elders, and joined them.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, addressing Hélène, “I have just made a discovery so agreeable that, before I venture to believe it, I must have your corroboration.”
“Indeed!” said Hélène, puzzled at the singular apostrophe. “Couvrez-vous, monsieur.” Edgar remained bare-headed awaiting her answer—“and let us know what this wonderful discovery is.”
“You are the daughter, I am told, of that brave soldier and true gentleman, Christian de Karodel?”
“You have been told the truth,” replied Hélène, her eye moistening with grateful emotion at hearing her father so designated.
“He was my mother’s first cousin, consequently I claim close friendship with you,” resumed the young man.
“And your name is—?”
“Edgar de Chassedot.”
“Ah! we are indeed cousins; but as your family seemed quite to have forgotten the fact, we had almost forgotten it ourselves,” replied Hélène coldly.