But this sudden violent passion so weakened Denys that a relapse followed; and thus Lucette had been left with a half-told tale which he had conjured her to carry to Gabrielle at once. She was at her wits’ end what to do, and when she heard that Gerard had arrived and was to be lodged in rooms adjoining, she found occasion to loiter about until she encountered Pascal. Her pretty face and distracted looks went straight to his sympathies, and when of her own motion she spoke to him, he soon forgot all about Gerard’s counsel. “You are here with M. de Cobalt, monsieur?” she said. “Certainly, mademoiselle, as certainly as that you are here with some trouble of another kind than a captious master. Although trouble may be a master of any of us for that matter.” Lucette was watching him, and found him good to look upon. Handsome, frank-faced and clear-eyed, with the stamp of truth. “You, too, are a soldier, monsieur?” “When I am not anything else, mademoiselle. But in times like these a man plays many parts.” She has handsome eyes, and knows how to use them, was his thought. “You have been long with M. de Cobalt, no doubt?” “I don’t know, mademoiselle,” was his unexpected reply, given with an engaging smile. He has a dangerous smile, this servant, and speaks with an air, said Lucette to herself. She is going to try and pump me, was Pascal’s unspoken warning to himself. “Don’t know, monsieur! How can that be?” “It depends upon what we reckon long; whether by lapse of time--weeks, months, years--or by the events which have occurred. A man may know a maiden for years until he marry her, and then find that he has never known her at all.” “Ah, you are a wit.” “What I am I myself know not; but I know what I am not--and I am not a stream in which people, even pretty maids, can fish with a chance of catching much.” “There is another thing you are not, monsieur,” retorted Lucette, smiling. “There are many. I am not my master’s diary, for others to read,” he answered with a laugh and a shake of the head. “Neither are you a servant, monsieur, unless you wear your master’s jewels on your fingers.” “By my shroud, but you have keen eyes as well as pretty ones; but even sharp eyes may lead one astray. I wear this jewel by my master’s whim,” he replied unabashed. “May I see it closer?” “Why not--’tis but a paste,” and he held it up. “You take great care of your hands, monsieur, for a serving soldier man,” was her comment, so unexpected that Pascal started and laughed. “Do you think I do hard work?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Your clothes, too, are new and ill-fitting--they fit you so ill, indeed, that I would swear you have never worn the like before.” “Count not the misfit to me for my sin,” replied Pascal gaily. “’Tis that of the rascal who made them. You interest me, mademoiselle; may I ask who you are?”