“We will fight if we are forced in self-defence, Dubois, but we will not force the fighting from our side,” was Gerard’s reply. “This is Mademoiselle de Malincourt’s matter more than ours, and her will must prevail.” “It will fail, my lord,” was the answer bluntly spoken. “Then we’ll try something else that will succeed. I am quite resolved. Let it be as I say.” “So much for a woman’s leadership,” growled Dubois to Pascal as he was starting with Babillon. “He might take another view if he’d had as much married experience as you,” laughed Pascal. “If he lives to marry her,” was the gloomy response. “To think he should sacrifice a chance like this for the sake of a squeamish girl.” “Get those arms, man, and we may have yet a tough bout or two here,” but Dubois shook his head discontentedly. Pascal looked after him and shrugged his shoulders, as he muttered to himself: “Your husband never sees the same light in a pair of bright eyes as your lover. Save me from marrying, say I, Pascal de la Tour.” A soft laugh broke in on his soliloquy, and he turned to find Lucette looking at him, her face severely demure but her eyes dancing with quizzical light. “Are you then in danger, monsieur?” she asked in a tone of deep solicitude. “Any man might well be at such short range as this,” he answered, meeting her gaze and laughing. “So you heard me?” “I heard you calling on some one else to save you from some dreadful fate, and the thought of any one in deep trouble appeals to me.” “Danger it might be and yet not deep trouble. I can well imagine there would be compensations--when I look at you. You’re a born coquette, I fear, Lucette. I shall have to read you a lecture or two.” “The experience of professors in any art is always to be welcomed, monsieur.” “Do Dauban and de Cavannes agree in that? They’ve had a pretty fair taste of the experience, at any rate,” he laughed. “Do you rate yourself on the same footing with them?” “In your eyes, do you mean?” “They are canaille, Monsieur Pascal.” “Some fishermen are so keen at the sport that when they can’t hook the trout they are glad to take the minnows.” “And some minnows are so self-ignorant they do not know they are not salmon,” she retorted, with a flash of the eyes. “A fair hit, mademoiselle. Shall we cry a truce?” “I came to ask what has been decided?” “Babillon has been here”--and he told her what had passed. “Ah, you soldiers always want to be killing something or somebody,” she answered. “Gabrielle is right. She is always right. She will be able to escape to this hiding place at any moment and can lie hid in safety till the storm passes. Men never think a woman can be right except when she says ditto to what they may decide.” “Until I met you I may have held to some such heresy. But did we not cry a truce? I am waving the white flag of surrender.” “You are very provoking, Monsieur Pascal.” “And you are very charming, Mademoiselle Lucette.”