"Not ten years, Eagle. Say eight." "No, nine." "Seven. If the book falls into my hands at the end of seven years, may I open it?" "I may safely promise you that," she laughed. "The book will never fall into your hands." I took from my pocket the gold snuffbox with the portraits on the lid, and placed my key carefully therein. Eagle leaned forward to look at them. She took the box in her hand, and gazed with long reverence, drooping her head. Young as I was, and unskilled in the ways of women, that key worked magic comfort. She had given me a link to hold us together. The inconsistent, contradictory being, old one instant with the wisdom of the Saint-Michels, rippling full of unrestrained life the next, denying me all hope, yet indefinitely tantalizing, was adorable beyond words. I closed my eyes: the blinding sunshine struck them through the ivied arch. Turning my head as I opened them, I saw an old man come out on the terrace. He tried to search in every direction, his gray head and faded eyes moving anxiously. Madame de Ferrier was still. I heard her lay the snuffbox on the stone seat. I knew, though I could not let myself watch her, that she stood up against the wall, a woman of stone, her lips chiseled apart. "Eagle--Eagle!" the old man cried from the terrace. She whispered--"Yes, Cousin Philippe!" XI Swiftly as she passed between the tree columns, more swiftly her youth and vitality died in that walk of a few yards. We had been girl and boy together a brief half hour, heedless and gay. When she reached the arbor end, our chapter of youth was ended. I saw her bloodless face as she stepped upon the terrace. The man stretched his arms to her. As if the blight of her spirit fell upon him, the light died out of his face and he dropped his arms at his sides. He was a courtly gentleman, cadaverous and shabby as he stood, all the breeding of past generations appearing in him. "Eagle?" he said. The tone of piteous apology went through me like a sword. She took his hands and herself drew them around her neck. He kissed her on both cheeks. "O Cousin Philippe!" "I have frightened you, child! I meant to send a message first--but I wanted to see you--I wanted to come home!" "Cousin Philippe, who wrote that letter?" "The notary, child. I made him do it." "It was cruel!" She gave way, and brokenly sobbed, leaning helpless against him. The old marquis smoothed her head, and puckered his forehead under the sunlight, casting his eyes around like a culprit. "It was desperate. But I could do nothing else! You see it has succeeded. While I lay in hiding, the sight of the child, and your youth, has softened Bonaparte. That was my intention, Eagle!" "The peasants should have told me you were living!"