De Gonnor's white face rose up before me, and I felt my forehead burn. I could make no answer. Madame looked at me for a moment, and then dropped a stately little courtesy. 'Monsieur, you are very good to advise me, and I take your reproof. But surely what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Is not the Chevalier d'Auriac a little hasty? How is it that he is not at home at Auriac, instead of hastening to Paris as fast as he can--to the masques at the Louvre, and the salons of Zamet?' 'It is different,' I stammered. 'Ah, yes, it is different,' with a superb scorn; 'I saw you pull a half league of face as I talked at dinner. Monsieur can go here. Monsieur can go there. He may dance at a revel from curfew till cockcrow, he may stake his estates on a throw of the dice, he may run his friend through for a word spoken in jest--it is all _comme il faut_. But, Madame--she must sit at home with her distaff, her only relaxation a _preche_, her amusement and joy to await Monsieur's return--is not that your idea, Chevalier?' She was laughing, but it was with a red spot on each cheek. 'Madame,' I replied, 'when I was but fifteen I joined the Cardinal de Joyeuse, and from that time to now my life has been passed in the field; I am therefore but a soldier, rough of speech, unused to argument, apt to say what is in my mind bluntly. I was wrong to make the remark I did, and ask your pardon; but, madame, brush away the idea that in this case the sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose--I use your own words--think what it would be if all womankind acted on what you have preached--think what would happen if the illusions that surround you, and which are now your strength, are dispelled. The worst of men have some memory of a home made happy by a woman, sister, mother, or wife, and the return to which was like a glimpse into heaven--the thought of which often made them better men--do not destroy this. And, madame, there is yet another thing--man is a fighting animal, and the final issues of an affair come to the sword--where would a struggle between this hand and mine end?--'in my eagerness I took her small white fingers in mine as I spoke, and shut them within my palm--'Madame,' I continued, 'rest assured that the glory and strength of a woman is in her weakness, and when she puts aside that armour she is lost. Think not that you have no mission--it is at a mother's knee that empires have been lost and won, that generations have, and will be, cursed or blessed.' I stood over her as I spoke; I was a tall man then and strong, and whether it was my speech or what I know not, but I felt the hand I held tremble in mine, and her eyes were turned from me. 'Let me say good-bye now,' I continued, 'and thank you again for what you have done.' She shook her head in deprecation. 'Very well, then, I will not recall it to you; but I can never forget--life is sweet of savour, and you gave it back to me. We will meet again in Paris--till then good-bye.'