"In the pocket of my doublet they found some papers addressed to
Rene de Lesperon - some love letters, a communication from the Duc
d'Orleans, and a woman's portrait. From all of this it was assumed
that I was that Lesperon. Upon my return to consciousness your
father greeted me effusively, whereat I wondered; he passed on to
discuss - nay, to tell me of - the state of the province and of his
own connection with the rebels, until I lay gasping at his egregious
temerity. Then, when he greeted me as Monsieur de Lesperon, I had
the explanation of it, but too late. Could I deny the identity then?
Could I tell him that I was Bardelys, the favourite of the King
himself? What would have occurred? I ask you, mademoiselle. Would
I not have been accounted a spy, and would they not have made short
work of me here at your chateau?"
"No, no; they would have done no murder."
"Perhaps not, but I could not be sure just then. Most men situated
as your father was would have despatched me. Ah, mademoiselle, have
you not proofs enough? Do you not believe me now?"
"Yes, monsieur," she answered simply, "I believe you."
"Will you not believe, then, in the sincerity of my love?"
She made no rely. Her face was averted, but from her silence I took
heart. I drew close to her. I set my hand upon the tall back of
her chair, and, leaning towards her, I spoke with passionate heat
as must have melted, I thought, any woman who had not a loathing
for me.
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