La Vireville bowed. "Your occupation, Madame, has very naturally blunted your perception of what a French gentleman would prefer." "On the contrary," retorted Mme. de Chaulnes, sitting up in her chair, her old eyes flashing, "it has greatly enlightened me as to his preferences. It has taught me that he considers it consistent with that honour of which he talks so much, to make war on his native land for the sake of his own class, and for a discredited dynasty--you see that I place these in the order in which they appeal to him--and that for his own ends he will not scruple even to call in the assistance of his country's enemies, the Prussians, and her hereditary foe of foes, England." La Vireville shrugged his shoulders (thereby causing himself a violent twinge of pain). "On that point, Madame, we shall never agree. In return for the question I have answered, may I now ask one of you? . . . How do you reconcile your own position as a French gentlewoman with--the use to which you put it?" Mme. de Chaulnes' smile was insolent. "Quite easily, Monsieur. I fight for my country--at the cost, I grant you, of my class; you, for your class, that degenerate, self-seeking class, at the expense of your country. To me it seems the more patriotic course to sacrifice the part to the whole, whatever it may cost one personally. I had a nephew in this morning's batch, but I would not have saved him if I could. Yes, it is rotten, this aristocracy of ours, and the sooner France is purged of it the better." That smile had maddened La Vireville. She was a woman, and his hands were tied behind him, but he still had the means of striking. "Ah yes," he said, in his most careless voice. "And when your misguided father was shot by order of Montcalm for his treachery during the siege of Quebec, you approved even then, no doubt, of the process of purgation, and applauded its beginning. He also, if I have heard rightly, had the same fancy for the assistance of the English against his own country." Not a muscle of Mme. de Chaulnes' face had quivered, but its faint colour had faded to grey, and La Vireville saw the small knotted hands in her lap gripping each other till the knuckles stood out white. And he was pleased. "You think, Monsieur, that this forty years' old story is the reason for my present actions? It is not, I assure you." And, seeing the smile on his face, she added with more warmth, "No, you would never understand that a woman could have conviction, apart from personal animus, in a matter of this sort."