Blaise, from whose nature tameness was the attribute farthest removed, looked first at the lady, in helpless bewilderment, then at me, with mute reproach for having placed him in his ridiculous position, and lastly at the maid, who regarded him with open derision. To be laughed at by this piquant creature, to whose charms he had been so speedily susceptible, was the crowning misery. His expression of woe was such that I could not easily retain my own serious and respectful countenance. Having to make some answer to the lady, I said: "An opportunity to defend so fair a lady would elevate the most ignoble." The lady, not being accustomed to exchanging compliments with a man-servant, went to her maid and talked with her in whispers, the two both gazing at Blaise with expressions of mirth. Blaise strode to my side with an awkwardness quite new to him. His face was in a violent perspiration. "The devil!" he whispered. "How they laugh at me! Won't you explain?" "Impossible!" "I object to being taken for a calf," said Blaise, ready to burst with anger. Then, suddenly reaching the limit of his endurance, he faced the lady and blurted out: "Mademoiselle, I would have run your pursuer through quickly enough, but I dared not rob my master--" I coughed a warning against his betraying us. He hesitated, then despairingly added, in a voice of resignation: "--my master, the King, of a single stroke of this sword, which I have devoted entirely to his service." "I do not doubt," said the lady, with cold irony, "that your sword is active enough when drawn in the service of your King." "My King," replied Blaise with dignity, "had the goodness to make a somewhat similar remark when he took Cahors!" "Cahors?" repeated the lady in a tone of perplexity. "But the King never took Cahors!" "The King of France,--no!" cried Blaise; "but the King of Navarre did!" "Blaise!" I cried, in angry reproof at his imprudence. The tone in which I spoke had so startled the lady that she dropped her mask, and I saw the sweetest face that ever gladdened the eyes of a man. It was the face of a girl naturally of a cheerful nature, but newly made acquainted with sorrow. Grief had not rendered the nature, or the face, unresponsive to transient impressions of a pleasant or mirthful kind. Hers was one of those hearts in which grief does not exclude all possibility of gaiety. Sorrow might lie at the bottom, never forgotten and never entirely concealed, but merriment might ripple on the surface. As for its outlines, the face, in every part, harmonized with the grace and purity of the chin and mouth. Her eyes were blue and large, with an eloquence displayed without intent or consciousness. "What does it mean?" she said, in a charming bewilderment. "The servant reproves the master. Ah! I see! The servant _is_ the master." And she smiled with pleasure at her discovery. "But still _your_ servant, mademoiselle," was all that I could say.