"I do thank him; but when I told you of this I did not know Monsieur Broussel's name, Diane." "All this does not concern the matter," I cut in. "What mademoiselle has to decide is whether she will go on to Paris or not. Which shall it be?" And I faced her. A little silence, and her eyes refused to meet mine. Then she said faintly: "I--I do not know." All depended on a single turn, but it was De Ganache himself who threw his cards away. Stepping up to mademoiselle he put his arm through hers, and with an air of command, almost proprietorship, he said: "Come, Diane, we waste time here, and we have far to go. I shall give Monsieur Broussel his thanks another day." She looked up at him--such a look!--and withdrew her arm. "Monsieur de Ganache," she said, "you take too much on yourself. I have decided, and I shall go to Paris." De Ganache looked at her and laughed bitterly. Then he broke forth into weak reviling at womankind. She let him run on, and at last he asked: "And after all I have done and risked this--this is your answer?" "My answer--to everything, monsieur." And with this she turned from him, and passing me went up the stair, back to her apartments. I was standing a little apart, leaning on my sword, hardly able to believe my ears, and wondering at the ways of womankind. De Ganache had taken up his hat, and was nervously tearing at the plume, his lips moving with unspoken words. All at once he turned to me, and his voice was hoarse with passion: "Monsieur, you have won. I set this against this morning. And we are quits. Quits, you understand?" I bowed, but made no answer. The man was beside himself, and the slightest word would have led to his drawing on me, and for mademoiselle's sake I held myself in. "Pechaud!" he went on, "my horse." And crushing his hat on his head he passed me without another word and went to the door. Pechaud followed him, and began to urge something, but was silenced with a rough word. Then he called for a light. Pechaud came running back for the lantern, and through the open door, as the light flickered on him, I saw De Ganache mount. Once he glanced back at me. He could see nothing, for I was in darkness, but the light which fell on his features showed him pale as ashes. The horse backed a little. He drove his spurs in with an oath, and then I heard him hammering through the night, going--God knows whither. Beat--beat--beat--the iron-shod hoofs rushed through the village, and the dogs awoke, and barked, barked and howled, long after he had passed on his reckless course. I waited a little, and then called to Pechaud. He came back slowly, and set his lantern with a trembling hand on the table. For the rest of the night we were in safety--that I knew. "It grows late, Maitre Pechaud," I said, "and I need rest." And so I left him. CHAPTER XVIII DR. JOHANNES CABALLUS