“Your request is granted: Mademoiselle Fleurange d'Yves will be received by her majesty on Thursday, at two o'clock.
V. L.”
“The day after to-morrow!” said Fleurange with emotion. Then, blushing as she continued: “But how happens it that the name which I have not borne for so long occurs in this note?”
“It is yours, is it not?” replied the marquis evasively.
“Yes, it is mine, but—” she stopped. A particular remembrance was now associated with the name of Fleurange. No one had called her so but George for more than three years. And the day for ever graven on her memory, he told her he should keep that name for himself—himself alone. She regretted to find it here written by a strange hand, and felt an involuntary contraction of the heart.
“I should have preferred the request made in the name I generally bear.”
“Pardon me. I am to blame in this,” said Adelardi. “I supposed it a matter of indifference. I thought the name of Fleurange would particularly attract the attention of her whose favor you seek, and remain more surely in her memory.”
This was merely an excuse which occurred to him in reply to a question he had not anticipated. His real motive was to conceal from the maid of honor another name perhaps more familiar, and which might be connected in her mind with some prejudice injurious to the success of the petition of which she was the intermediary.
To Be Continued.