I shrank back. Remember I had been for three years in the hourly companionship of a man of lofty soul for all his waywardness, and he had modelled me like wax to his liking. The gold piece was tempting. I had never owned a gold piece in my life--and all the frost had melted from Joanna's eyes. But I felt I should be dishonored in taking money. "I promise without that," I said. She put the coin back in her purse and held out her delicately gloved hand. "Promise with this, then," she said. And then I knew for the first time what an exquisite sensitive thing is a sweet, high-bred lady. Only such a one could have performed that act of grace. She converted me into a besotted little imbecile weltering in bliss. I would have pledged my soul's welfare to execute any phantasmagoric behest she had chosen to ordain. "I am leaving Aix tomorrow morning--but if you are ever in any trouble--by the way what is your name?" "Asticot Pradel," said I, reflecting for the first time that though Polydore Pradel had perished and Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot reigned in his stead, my own borrowed or invented name remained unaltered. Augustus Smith lingered in my memory as a vague, mythical creature of no account. Joanna smiled. "You are a little masquerader too. Well--if you are ever in any trouble, and I can help you--remember the Comtesse de Verneuil, 7 Avenue de Messine, Paris." This offer of friendship took my breath away. I grinned stupidly at her. I was also puzzled. "What is the matter?" she laughed. "The Comtesse de Verneuil?--but you are English," I stammered. "Yes. But my husband is French. He is the Comte de Verneuil. Remember 7 Avenue de Messine." She nodded graciously and turned away leaving a stupefied Asticot twirling his hat. Her husband! And I had been calling her Mademoiselle all the time! And I had been weaving fairy tales of our riding off with her to Paragot's castle! She was married. Her husband was the Comte de Verneuil! Worse than that. Her husband was the disagreeable beaky-nosed man who gave me five sous to go away. A sense of desolation, disaster, disillusionment overwhelmed me. I sat on the bench and burst out crying and Narcisse jumped up and licked my face. CHAPTER IX IT was nearly midnight when Paragot returned to our inn on the outskirts of the town. He reeled up to the doorstep where I sat in the moonlight awaiting his return. "Why aren't you in bed?" "It was too hot and I couldn't sleep, Master," said I. As a matter of fact I had been dismally failing to compose a poem on Joanna after the style of Maître François Villon. Just as youthful dramatists begin with a five act tragedy, so do youthful poets begin with a double ballade. In order to eke out the slender stock of rhymes to Joanna, I had to drag in Indianna which somehow didn't fit. I remember also that she showered her favours like manna, which was not very original. Paragot seated himself heavily by my side.