“She told me that so great was her love for her only grandchild that she would never force your choice, and therefore it remained with you to decide for yourself.” He spoke with feeling, his bold blue eyes on her lovely face. “I trust that you are not wholly indifferent to me, Rosaline,” he continued, “and I can give you much. My beautiful princess is shut up here in a ruinous old château. I will show you the world--Paris--Versailles. No beauty of the court will compare with the rose of Languedoc.” He paused, carried away by his own eloquence, for M. de Baudri was not given to sentiment. Rosaline had listened with patience and composure, and she answered him in a tone of quiet amusement. “Monsieur does me too much honor,” she said. “The château is indeed ruinous, but ’tis my home, and, strange to say, I do not long for the splendors of the court--or the flattery of the courtiers.” “But my love for you, mademoiselle!” he protested in surprise; surely this child did not realize the honor he paid her. “I offer you my heart and hand.” Rosaline curtsied with a smile on her lips. “I am honored, monsieur,” she replied; “but happily, as my grandmother says, I have the decision of my fate. My marriage matters to no one except to her and to me--and, monsieur, I do not desire to marry.” He stared at her in such frank surprise that she had to avert her face to hide her amusement. “You are only a child,” he said bluntly; “you do not understand what my name and fortune would mean to you. ’Tis not every day, mademoiselle, that a man desires to marry a young girl without a _dot_!” She laughed softly, her blue eyes shining. “I appreciate your condescension, monsieur,” she said amiably; “but I am too wise to thrust myself upon such rash generosity.” “This is folly, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, his temper rising; “or is it only a shamefaced reluctance to confess your true sentiments?” Rosaline had borne much, but at this she broke down, laughing as merrily and recklessly as a child; laughing until tears stood in her blue eyes. Meanwhile M. de Baudri stood in front of her swelling with rage and mortification, his face crimson and his blue eyes fierce with indignation. Still Rosaline laughed. “Mademoiselle is merry,” he said stiffly. “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she replied, “a thousand times.” “You have not answered me,” he went on harshly. “Am I to understand that my suit is refused?” “It is refused, monsieur,” she rejoined more calmly; “M. de Baudri should seek a bride of more wealth and distinction.” He stood a moment silent, the picture of furious indignation, then he looked over the hedge and saw a man crossing the space between the house and the wing. M. de Baudri frowned. “Who is that, mademoiselle?” he demanded sharply, pointing toward the stranger. Rosaline’s eyes followed his finger, and she colored, her composure disturbed at last. “It is the new steward, monsieur,” she replied.