“Carinne, we have been much at cross-purposes of late.” “Have we, M. Thibaut? But perhaps it is in the order of things.” “And that is to say that the plebeian Thibaut and the patrician De Lâge cannot meet on a common plane?” “You must not put words in my mouth.” “Ah, if I might!” “What then? It will soothe my _ennui_ to hear.” “Not for the moment. Tell me, mademoiselle, would you renew this comradeship were we to escape, and meet in the after-time under better conditions of security?” “Oh, monsieur! and would you have me wander hand in hand with you through the gardens of the Thuilleries? or invite you to sleep upon the tester of my bed? or open my mouth like a young bird at the fruit-stalls, that you might pop in raspberries?” “Unkind! I would have you meet me by chance; I would see your eyes open to a light of pleasure; I would have you come gladly to me and take my fingers in yours and say: ‘This is he that was my good friend when I needed one.’” “I will remember. And then all will clap their hands and cry ‘Bravo!’ will they not? and I shall feel a little excitement. ‘_Qu’y a-t-il_, Jacko!’ I shall say. ‘Show the company some of the pretty tricks you played in the woods.’” I was silent. “And are those the words you would put in my mouth, monsieur?” said Carinne. “I referred to the present,” I answered coldly; “and, as you take it so, I will speak in your person as I would have you speak. ‘Jean-Louis,’ you say, ‘I am, like all sweet women, an agglomerate of truths and inconsistencies; yet I am not, in the midst of my wilfulness, insensible to the suffering my caprice of misunderstanding puts you to; and, in face of the equivocal character of our intercourse, I will forego the blindness that is a privilege of my sex. Speak boldly, then, what lies in your heart.’” As I spoke in some trepidation, Carinne’s face grew enigmatical with hardness and a little pallor, and she looked steadily away from me. “I thank you,” she said softly, “for that word ‘equivocal.’ But please to remember, monsieur, that this ‘_intercourse_’ is none of my seeking.” “You choose to misapprehend me.” “Oh! it is not possible,” she cried, turning sharply upon me. “You take advantage of my condescension and of the wicked licence of the times. Have you sought, by this elaborate process, to entrap me into a confession of dependence upon you? Why” (she measured me scornfully with her eyes), “I think I look over and beyond you, monsieur.”