She blushed, and
abruptly laid the offending volume on the table. The merry Vicar of
Meudon was not wholly acceptable to her woman's mind. To whom did it
belong, this foundling book? With a grimace which would have caused
Rabelais to smile, she turned back the cover.
"The Chevalier's!" To what did he pretend? "I shall send it back to
his room. Gabrielle, Gabrielle, thou wert a fool, and a fool's folly
has brought you to Quebec! A nun? I should die! Why did I come? In
mercy's name, why? . . . A letter?" An oblong envelope, lying on the
floor, attracted her attention. She took it up with a deal more
curiosity than she had the book. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny,"
she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied
the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely
familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to
the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell
and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her
service.
"Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cevennes, and if he is not
there, leave it in his room.
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