A chill settled
over Denis as he observed her costume; he fought with desperate energy
against the conclusion that was being thrust upon his mind; it could
not--it should not--be as he feared.
"Blanche," said the sire, in his most flute-like tones, "I have
brought a friend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give him
your pretty hand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary to be
polite, my niece."
The girl rose to her feet and turned toward the newcomers. She moved
all of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in every line
of her fresh young body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes
upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In the course of her
advance her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu's feet--feet of which he
was justly vain, be it remarked, and wore in the most elegant
accoutrement even while travelling. She paused--started, as if his
yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning--and glanced, suddenly
up into the wearer's countenance. Their eyes met; shame gave place to
horror and terror in her looks; the blood left her lips, with a
piercing scream she covered her face with her hands and sank upon, the
chapel floor.
"That is not the man!" she cried. "My uncle, that is not the man!"
The Sire de Maletroit chirped agreeably. "Of course not," he said; "I
expected as much. It was so unfortunate you could not remember his
name.
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