y
it was, so he said, except in the last sad times, when your father, for
the sake of Don Carlos and his rights, near lost his life--ah, I can
understand that: to stand by the thing you have sworn to! France is a
republic, but I would give my life to put a Napoleon or a Bourbon on the
throne. It is my hobby to stand by the old ship, not sign on to a new
captain every port."

She raised her head and looked at him calmly now. The flush had gone
from her face, and a light of determination was in her eyes. To that was
added suddenly a certain tinge of recklessness and abandon in carriage
and manner, as one flings the body loose from the restraints of clothes,
and it expands in a free, careless, defiant joy.

Jean Jacques' recital of her father's tale had confused her for a
moment, it was so true yet so untrue, so full of lies and yet so
solid in fact. "The head of the house--visits to Madrid on political
business--the parlour, the market, society--all that!" It suggested the
picture of the life of a child of a great house; it made her a lady,
and not a superior servant as she had been; it adorned her with a credit
which was not hers; and for a moment she was ashamed. Yet from the first
she had lent herself to the general imposture that they had fled from
Spain for political reasons, having lost all and suffered greatly; and
it was true while yet it was a lie. She had suffered, both her father
and herself had suffered; she had been in danger, in agony, in sorrow,
in despair--it was only untrue that they were of good birth and blood,
and had had position and comfort and much money. Well, what harm did
that do anybody? What harm did it do this little brown seigneur from
Quebec? Perhaps he too had made himself out to be more than he was.
Perhaps he was no seigneur at all, she thought. When one is in distant
seas and in danger of his life, one will hoist any flag, sail to any
port, pay homage to any king. So would she. Anyhow, she was as good as
this provincial, with his ancient silver watch, his plump little hands,
and his book of philosophy.

What did it matter, so all came right in the end! She would justify
herself, if she had the chance. She was sick of conspiracy, and danger,
and chicanery--and blood. She wanted her chance. She had been badly
shaken in the last days in Spain, and she shrank from more worry and
misery. She wanted to have a home and not to wander. And here was a
chance--how good a chance she was not sure;