"I stared at you because I know you. You are Marianne Froment, the miller's daughter, who left La Thierry a year ago. And you should remember Robert Tournay."
The young woman shook her head with a decided gesture.
"You mistake, friend; my name is not Marianne Froment. I know no miller, and have never heard of the place you speak of."
Tournay remembered when he had seen her last in the alley of the park. He felt no animosity toward her; instead he felt compassion for the silly girl whose head had been turned by the flattery of a nobleman who had already grown tired of her.
"It is you who are mistaken, Marianne," he replied quietly, "although when I knew you at La Thierry, drinking strong liquor was not one of your practices."
"I am La Demoiselle Liberté," replied the girl defiantly, throwing her brown curls back from her forehead and replacing her cap. "I have drunk such liquor as this from my cradle. So here's to you! May you some day grow to be a man."
Tournay stayed the bottle in its course to her lips, and took her hand in his.
"You are Marianne Froment," he persisted, "and it would be much better for you to be in the quiet country of La Thierry. Why not go back?"
"If Marianne did go back, who would speak to her? Who among all those who live there would take her by the hand?" she asked.
"Have I not taken you by the hand just now?" asked Tournay.