He smiled at me. His was such a beautiful smile. It came rarely, but when it did, it lighted up all his features like a glory. There was no mirth in it—I think self-reproach at that period had chased away from his spirit all the merriment which later I saw shine forth—but it was thoroughly appreciative and genuine. On the present occasion his smile seemed to say much more than he chose his lips should utter. ‘You will not let me thank you,’ I continued, ‘but I must. Thank God! my fears were not well founded, and we did not both perish. For I feel you would have died sooner than let me be torn from your grasp.’ ‘Of course I would!’ ‘Oh! I think a brave man is the most wonderful and beautiful thing God ever made. Why should you have sacrificed your life for me, of whom you know nothing?’ ‘It would have been my duty to lay it down under such circumstances, mademoiselle, for any woman—and of all women——’ But here he stopped short, as though ignorant how to finish his sentence, and I did not see the way to help him. Presently he began again: ‘You were good enough to say once, mademoiselle, that it would interest you to hear the means by which I was brought down to my present position. Shall I tell you the story now?’ ‘Do, monsieur,’ I said, turning my eyes upon him. He was seated at a little distance from me, with both his hands between his knees, digging up the earth under his feet with the light cane he usually carried. His eyes were downcast, and I noticed the length of the dark lashes that lay upon his cheek, and contrasted with the grave pallor that seemed suddenly to have overspread his countenance. Whatever this story might be, it was evidently hard to tell, and I prepared myself to hear a confession of much folly and evil, and perhaps—dishonour. Should I like him the less, I asked myself, when his tale was finished? I did not believe I should like him the less. I felt so confident that whatever his sins might have been, Armand de Nesselrode possessed the power of rising above them. [Illustration: [Fleuron]] CHAPTER IV. THE BARON’S STORY. ‘I am afraid you will weary of me before I have finished my recital,’ commenced the Baron. ‘I shall not weary, monsieur,’ I answered simply. ‘You will keep my confidence, I know! This is the first time I have ever told the history of my folly to a living creature.’ I wondered for a moment, then, why he should have elected to tell it to me. But he went on too rapidly for me to put the question to him. ‘I have never had the happiness to possess a mother, a sister, or even a female relation sufficiently near to whom I could confide my sorrows or my perplexities. From a little child I was brought up in the society of men, and taught, as far as possible, to guide myself. That circumstance has been a terrible drawback to me, mademoiselle.’ ‘Yes—so long as you were a little child.’ ‘And not afterwards?’