Her skin was as fresh as the roses, looking marvelous to touch. The shock of imminent discovery went through me. For how can a man consider a woman forever as a picture? A picture she was, in the short-waisted gown of the Empire, of that white stuff Napoleon praised because it was manufactured in France. It showed the line of her throat, being parted half way down the bosom by a ruff which encircled her neck and stood high behind it. The transparent sleeves clung to her arms, and the slight outline of her figure looked long in its close casing. The gown tail curled around her slippered foot damp from the plunge in the garden. She gave it a little kick, and rippled again suddenly throughout her length. Then her face went grave, like a child's when it is surprised in wickedness. "But our fathers and mothers would have us forget their suffering in the festival of coming home, wouldn't they, Lazarre?" "Surely, Eagle." "Then why are you looking at me with reproach?" "I'm not." "Perhaps you don't like my dress?" I told her it was the first time I had ever noticed anything she wore, and I liked it. "I used to wear my mother's clothes. Ernestine and I made them over. But this is new; for the new day, and the new life here." "And the day," I reminded her, "is the first of September." She laughed, and opened her left hand, showing me two squat keys so small that both had lain concealed under two of her finger tips. "I am going to give you a key, sire." "Will it unlock a woman's mind?" "It will open a padlocked book. Last night I found a little blank-leaved book, with wooden covers. It was fastened by a padlock, and these keys were tied to it. You may have one key: I will keep the other." "The key to a padlocked book with nothing in it." Her eyes tantalized me. "I am going to put something in it. Sophie Saint-Michel said I had a gift for putting down my thoughts. If the gift appeared to Sophie when I was a child, it must grow in me by use. Every day I shall put some of my life into the book. And when I die I will bequeath it to you!" "Take back the key, madame. I have no desire to look into your coffin." She extended her hand. "Then our good and kind friend Count de Chaumont shall have it." "He shall not!" I held to her hand and kept my key. She slipped away from me. The laughter of the child yet rose through the dignity of the woman. "When may I read this book, Eagle?" "Never, of my free will, sire. How could I set down all I thought about you, for instance, if the certainty was hanging over me that you would read my candid opinions and punish me for them!" "Then of what use is the key?" "You would rather have it than give it to another, wouldn't you?" "Decidedly." "Well, you will have the key to my thoughts!" "And if the book ever falls into my hands--" "I will see that it doesn't!" "I will say, years from now--" "Twenty?" "Twenty? O Eagle!" "Ten." "Months? That's too long!" "No, ten years, sire."