"Monsieur," she said, "you may call me what you will, and I will bear it,
for you have been sorely injured. You are angry because I seemed to
think an Englishman was not fitted to be Seigneur of Pontiac. We French
are a people of sentiments and ideas; we make idols of trifles, and we
die for fancies. We dream, we have shrines for memories. These things
you despise. You would give us justice and make us rich by what you call
progress. Monsieur, that is not enough. We are not born to appreciate
you. Our hearts are higher than our heads, and, under a flag that
conquered us, they cling together. Was it strange that I should think
Louis Racine better suited to be Seigneur at Pontiac?"

She paused as though expecting him to answer, but he only looked
inquiringly at her, and she continued "My husband used you ill, but he
is no interloper. He took what the law gave him, what has been in his
family for over two hundred years. Monsieur, it has meant more to him
than a hundred times greater honour could to you. When his trouble came,
when--" she paused, as though it was difficult to speak--"when the other
--legacy--of his family descended on him, that Seigneury became to him
the one compensation of his life. By right of it only could he look the
world in the face--or me."

She stopped suddenly, for her voice choked her. "Will you please
continue?" said Fournel, opening and shutting the will in his hand,
and looking at her with a curious new consideration.

"Fame came to me as his trouble came to him. It was hard for him to go
among men, but, ah, can you think how he dreaded the day when I should
return to Pontiac ! . . . I will tell you the whole truth, Monsieur."
She drew herself up proudly. "I loved--Louis. He came into my heart