“Yes, there is Mademoiselle de St. Gré,” repeated the Vicomtesse, toying with the cards.
His face lighted, though his lips twitched with pain.
“She is still—”
“She is still Mademoiselle de St. Gré, Monsieur, if that is what you mean.”
“And what will she think if I stay here?”
“Ah, do you care what she thinks, Mr. Temple?” said the Vicomtesse, raising her head quickly. “From what I have heard, I should not have thought you could.”
“God help me,” he answered simply, “I do care.”
Hélène's eyes softened as she looked at him, and my pride in him was never greater than at that moment.
“Mr. Temple,” she said gently, “remain where you are and have faith in us. I begin to see now why you are so fortunate in your friends.” Her glance rested for a brief instant on me. “Mr. Ritchie and I will go to New Orleans, talk to the Baron, and send André at once with a message. If it is in our power, you shall see your mother very soon.”
She held out her hand to him, and he bent and kissed it reverently, with an ease I envied. He followed us to the door. And when the Vicomtesse had gone a little way down the path she looked at him over her shoulder.