"Ze madame an' ze m'sieu she live wiz!" he burst out, desperately. "How
call you zem?"
"Granny and Gran'fer--her grandparents!" I exclaimed.
"_Bien!..._ Well zen?"
"I have not told them. I have not told Lessie. I did not know it myself
until last night."
"_Soit._ But ze secret, m'sieu, is zeirs."
"Is not the girl concerned, my good sir?" I demanded.
"Celeste?"
"Celeste!"
"Ze wil' ma'm'selle you call Lessie. I chris'en 'er myself, m'sieu; her
name Celeste."
"And these boors have corrupted it to Lessie!" I almost shouted.
"Zey couldn't 'member Celeste," smiled Father John.
For a time I was silent, gazing at that vision in my mind which bore the
sweet name of Celeste instead of the meaningless one of Lessie.
"Has she, then, no rights in the matter?" I persisted, and at the words
I knew my voice had changed. Father John's candid and matter-of-fact
revelation had filled me all up, somehow. I am aware there was no good
reason why this should be, but people deeply in love have a constant
abhorrence of anything and everything remotely bordering on reason.
"Should she, m'sieu, seek ze inf'mation, I sink I should tell 'er."
Sweetly grave and courteous were the words, and even in my impatience I
recognized their justness.
"Very well, father. But I must ask you another question which I trust
you can answer without offense to your conscience. Was Lessie's--was
Celeste's father a man of learning; a man who moved along the higher
walks of life, or was he simply a countryman?"
Only for a moment he hesitated.
"He was ze gran' gen'leman in manner--ze scholar--ze sinker. His heart
was black!"
"It must have been," I breathed, as I rose.
My host again followed me to the low stone step at the porch entrance,
protesting against my departure and begging me to stay for dinner, which
came at noon. I told him I would come again, and I meant it.
"You have been very kind," I said, in farewell, "and I want to thank you
for the things you told me. In time Celeste will come with her demands,
trust me for that."
"Vair well, m'sieu!" he cried, twisting his face into a maze of
goodhumored wrinkles.
At the gate I turned and waved to him again, sweeping the premises with
my eyes as I did so for a sign of Beryl Drane.
That most peculiar young woman was nowhere visible.