“England, eh! That is a long way,” she said, seriously.
“Unfortunately,” the Duke added, quietly, “we have had some slight difference of opinion with the authorities, therefore we may not take the train; also our horses and sleigh were stolen from us by a rascally driver this morning. All today we have been wandering in the woods, hoping to find a farm where we may hire a conveyance.”
“Monsieur is very trusting to tell me this!”
De Richleau bowed again. “No one with the eyes of Mademoiselle could be unkind or indiscreet,” he smiled.
“You know that I am not a Russian, eh?”
“Mademoiselle at this moment should be taking her tea at the ‘Marquis de Sévigné.”
“‘The Marquis de Sévigné’?” She frowned, puzzled. “What is that?”
“Surely, I cannot be mistaken? Mademoiselle is French, and ‘Sévigné’ the most fashionable tea-shop in Paris. It is there that you belong.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I do not remember Paris, but I am French. How did you know?”
The Duke spread out his elegant hands. “The carriage of Mademoiselle proclaims it from the house-tops — the way Mademoiselle wears that little hat is in the manner born of the Parisienne.”