"The
Chevalier was waiting two hours for you."
Roxalanne coloured to the roots of her hair. The Vicomte frowned.
"Waiting for me, my mother? But why for me?"
"Answer my question - where have you been?"
"I was with Monsieur de Lesperon," she answered simply.
"Alone?" the Vicomtesse almost shrieked.
"But yes." The poor child's tones were laden with wonder at this
catechism.
"God's death!" she snapped. "It seems that my daughter is no better
than--"
Heaven knows what may have been coming, for she had the most
virulent, scandalous tongue that I have ever known in a woman's
head - which is much for one who has lived at Court to say. But
the Vicomte, sharing my fears, perhaps, and wishing to spare the
child's ears, interposed quickly "Come, madame, what airs are these?
What sudden assumption of graces that we do not affect? We are not
in Paris. This is not the Luxembourg. En province comme en
province, and here we are simple folk--"
"Simple folk?" she interrupted, gasping. "By God, am I married to
a ploughman? Am I Vicomtesse of Lavedan, or the wife of a boor of
the countryside? And is the honour of your daughter a matter--"
"The honour of my daughter is not in question, madame," he
interrupted in his turn, and with a sudden sternness that spent
the fire of her indignation as a spark that is trampled underfoot.
Then, in a calm, level voice: "Ah, here are the servants," said he.
"Permit them, madame, to take charge of Monsieur de Saint-Eustache.
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