"And she objected, chère Comtesse?" De Lancy’s tone was one of pained incredulity. Chère Comtesse shrugged her shoulders delicately. "What would you?" she observed. "She was as beautiful as a picture, and as virtuous as if Our Lady had sat for it. It even fatigued one a little, her virtue." Her own had bored no one—she had not permitted it any such social solecism. "I remember," said De Lancy; "they went down to Rochambeau, and expired there of dulness and each other’s unrelieved society." Mme de Créspigny had been looking attentively at Aline. "Now I know who the girl is," she said. "It is the girl who disappeared, who was supposed to have been massacred. I saw her at Laure de Montargis’ reception the day of the arrests, and I remember her now. Ah! that poor Laure——" She shuddered faintly. De Lancy became interested. "But she accompanied her cousin to La Force and perished there." "She must have escaped. I am sure it is she. She had that way of holding her head—like a stag—proud and timid." "It was one of her mother’s attractions," said the Comtesse. "Mlle Desmond was, however, a great deal more beautiful. Her daughter, if this girl is her daughter, has only that trick, and the eyes—yes, she has the lovely eyes," as Aline turned her head and looked in their direction. "M. de Lancy, do me the favour of conducting her here, and presenting her to me." The little old dandy clicked away on his high heels, and in a moment Mademoiselle was aware of a truly courtly bow, whilst a thin, shaky voice said gallantly: "We rejoice to welcome Mademoiselle to our society." She curtsied—a graceful action—and Madame de Matigny watching, nodded twice complacently. "Bourgeoise indeed!" she murmured, and pressed her lips together. "You are too good, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle. Only four words, but the voice—the composure. "Madame la Comtesse is right, as always; she is certainly one of us," thought De Lancy. "Madame la Comtesse de Matigny begs the honour of your acquaintance," he pursued; "she had the pleasure of knowing your parents." "Monsieur?" "Do I not address Mlle de Rochambeau?" Surprise, and a sense of terror at hearing her name, so long concealed, brought the colour to her face. "That is my name," she murmured. "She is always right—she is wonderful," repeated the Marquis to himself, as he piloted his charge across the room. He made the presentation in form. "Madame la Comtesse, permit that I present to you Mademoiselle de Rochambeau." Aline bent to the white, wrinkled hand, but was raised and embraced. "You resemble your mother too closely to be mistaken by any one who had the happiness of her acquaintance," said a gracious voice, and thereon ensued a whole series of introductions. "M. le Marquis de Lancy, who also knew your parents." "Mme de Créspigny, my granddaughter Mlle Marguerite de Matigny."