Ah, the contrast in the lives that touch each other so strangely in this world of ours! CHAPTER X A DANGEROUS SUIT Madame de St. Cyr was leaning back in her chair, her white hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed in an absent gaze on the space outside the sitting-room window. Opposite to her, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece was the elegant figure of M. de Baudri. He was watching the old face before him, with indifferent eyes, a smile on his lips. She was ill at ease; he was well satisfied. He was the first to break the pause. “I think madame will acknowledge that I am willing to do all that is liberal and kind,” he said suavely. “I do acknowledge it, monsieur,” she replied, in troubled tones, “but the child--you know, M. de Baudri, that I have never treated Rosaline as other girls are treated. She is accustomed to deciding for herself, young as she is, and--she does not listen favorably to your suit.” He waved his hand airily. “The whim of a child, madame, the natural coyness of a young maiden. I honor mademoiselle, for her hesitations, but between us there need be no such conventionalities. I desire to marry your granddaughter, and I flatter myself that you do not object, madame.” He fixed his eyes on her haughtily as he spoke; there was a covert threat in his tone, despite his affable manner. The old woman sighed. “’Tis hard for me to explain,” she said plaintively; “I can have no objections to you personally, M. de Baudri, but I am averse to doing anything to force Rosaline’s inclinations.” He smiled scornfully. “Madame does not expect me to believe in so flimsy an excuse, surely?” he remarked with a frown. “I never heard that the whims of a mere girl controlled arrangements of this kind. My marriage with your granddaughter would benefit you in many ways. The de Baudris confer an honor when they marry.” A red spot flamed in madame’s white cheeks; her situation had made a coward of her, but there was a limit even to her endurance. “The St. Cyrs thank monsieur,” she said ironically, “but they also are of noble blood. No man could confer an honor on the daughter of the house; she will confer it, when she makes her choice. We are poor, M. de Baudri, but we ask favors of no one.” He saw his error, and bowed low before the old dame, his hand on his heart. “Mademoiselle is an angel,” he said; “if I did not recognize that, I would not, a second time, sue for her hand. I also am proud, madame.”