one; but then, it filled me
with a kind of rage. The angry blood of a false pride, a false humility,
surged to my brain and sang in my ears; and as the young man stepped
forward with outstretched hand, crying, "A compatriot. Welcome,
monsieur!" I drew back, stammering with anger. "My name is Jacques De
Arthenay!"[3] I said. "I am an American, a shoemaker, and the son of a
farmer."

There was a moment of silence, in which I seemed to live a year. I was
conscious of everything, the well-bred surprise of the young nobleman,
the half-amused vexation of the priest, my own clumsy, boyish rage and
confusion. In reality it was only a few seconds before I felt my
friend's hand on my shoulder, with its kind, fatherly touch.

"Sit down, my child!" he said. "Does it matter greatly how a name is
pronounced? It is the same name, and I pronounced it thus, not without a
reason. Sit down, and have peace!"

There was authority as well as kindness in his voice. I sat down, still
trembling and blushing. Father L'Homme-Dieu went on quietly, as if
nothing had happened.

"It was for the marquis's sake that I gave your name its former--and
correct--pronunciation, my son Jacques. If I mistake not, he is of the
same part of France from which your ancestors came. Huguenots of
Blanque, am I not right, marquis?"

I was conscious that the stranger, whom I was inwardly accusing as a
pretentious puppy, a slip of a dead and worthless tree, was looking at
me intently; my eyes seemed drawn to his whether I would or no. So
meeting those blue eyes, there passed as it were a flash from them into
mine, a flash that warmed and lightened, as a smile broke over his face.

"D'Arthenay!" he said, in a tone that seemed to search for some
remembrance. "_D'Arthenay, tenez foi! n'est-ce pas, monsieur?_"

I started. The words were the motto of my father's house. They were
engraved on the stone which marked the grave of my grandfather many
times back, Jacques, Sieur D'Arthenay. Seeing my agitation, the marquis
leaned forward eagerly. He was full of quick, light gestures, that
somehow brought my mother back to me.

"But, we are neighbours!" he cried. "We must be friends, M. D'Arthenay.
Your tower--it is a noble ruin--stands not a league from my chateau in
Blanque. The Ste. Valeries and the D'Arthenays were always friends,
since Adam was, and till the Grand Monarque separated them with his
accursed Revocation. Monsieur, that I am enchanted at this rencounter!
_