“That,” says he, “is my lord Marquis of Tourvel, his most Christian majesty’s viceroy in the Indies.”[86] “The King of France’s viceroy?” said I, in great astonishment. “Even so,” says he. “And the gentlewomen with him are his lady and his daughter, as I suppose?” said I, trying to digest that which he told me. “Nay,” said he, “Mad. de Tourvel is dead these many years. The younger lady is my lord’s daughter, Mademoiselle de Tourvel, and the other is Mad. de Chesnac, her cousin, who is her governess, waiting-gentlewoman, what you will.” “And hath his lordship any other children here?” asked I. “Nay, he han’t none else at all. Mademoiselle Heliodore is the only one, and she hath abode so long unmarried that ’tis said she intends to devote herself altogether to my lord her father. But that----” Here the Gentue servant entered the chamber, and brought in with him a young black page-boy, bearing a packet in his hand, the which he did deliver to me. In the packet was there a purse of cut velvet, very handsome, with twenty _louis d’or_ therein, and with it a billet wrote in French very elegantly, saying that I had doubtless found myself incommoded by the loss of all my clothes and other necessaries, and that ’twould afford an infinite pleasure to Mademoiselle de Tourvel if I would permit her to supply my most pressing needs. Mr Marigny, seeing the purse and knowing the lad that brought it, made a sign to me to accept that which was sent me, and was good enough to furnish me with paper and ink, wherewith I writ that I did most gratefully accept the kindness of Mademoiselle de Tourvel, and looked forward with impatience to doing myself the honour of signifying my thanks in person to her ladyship that evening. And this letter wrote, and the servant and the page departed, Mr Marigny looked jestingly at me. “O happy youth!” says he, “have you already won the favour of the peerless Heliodore, when no other can gain from her anything but coldness?” “Methinks, sir,” says I, “you are unjust to the lady that has just dealt so kindly by me, to suspect her of such designs.” “Sir,” says Mr Marigny, quickly, “I spake but in jest. I pray you to believe that I an’t altogether a fool. I honour and esteem Mademoiselle de Tourvel as if she were my own sister, and so do all here, but we know better than to expect her to look kindly on any of us.” He seemed as if he might have said more, but stayed himself suddenly, and asked me whether I would choose to see the town. This set me a-laughing. “’Tis prodigious strange,” says I, “but here have I been for a night and a day in this place without so much as knowing the name on’t.”