And she paused a long moment, considering him, a little wide-eyed,
what time he bowed before her.
"But of course I remember him," she said at last, and came towards
him, putting out her hand. He kissed it dutifully, submissively,
instinctively. "And this is what you have grown into?" She
appraised him, and he flushed with pride at the satisfaction in
her tone. He seemed to have gone back sixteen years, and to be
again the little Breton lad at Gavrillac. She turned to Aline.
"How mistaken Quintin was in his assumptions. He was pleased to
see him again, was he not?"
"So pleased, madame, that he has shown me the door," said
Andre-Louis.
"Ah!" She frowned, conning him still with those dark, wistful eyes
of hers. "We must change that, Aline. He is of course very angry
with you. But it is not the way to make converts. I will plead
for you, Andre-Louis. I am a good advocate."
He thanked her and took his leave.
"I leave my case in your hands with gratitude. My homage, madame."
And so it happened that in spite of his godfather's forbidding
reception of him, the fragment of a song was on his lips as his
yellow chaise whirled him back to Paris and the Rue du Hasard.
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