It was Mad. de Lorgeville. She knew me and I recognised her, having known her before her marriage. She still possessed the beauty of her girlhood, and marriage had perfected her loveliness by adorning her with that fascinating grace that is wanting even in Raphael's madonnas. A peal of merry laughter rooted me to the spot and changed the current of my ideas. The lady was seized with such a fit of gayety that she could scarcely speak, but managed to gasp out my name and title in broken syllables. Like a great many men, I can stand much from women that I am not in love with.... I stood with arms crossed and hat off, waiting for an explanation of this foolish reception. After several attempts, Mad. de Lorgeville succeeded in making her little speech. After this storm of laughter there was still a ripple through which I could distinguish the following words, although I did not understand them:-- "Excuse me, monsieur, ... but if you knew ... when you see ... but she must not see my foolish merriment, ... she cherishes the fancy that she is still young, ... like all women who are no longer so, ... give me your arm, ... we were at table ... we always keep a seat for a chance visitor ... One does not often meet with an adventure like this except in novels...." I made an effort to assume that calmness and boldness that saved my life the day I was made prisoner on the inhospitable coast of Borneo, and the old Arab king accused me of having attempted the traffic of gold dust--a capital crime--and said to the fair young châtelaine: "Madame, there is not much to amuse one in the country; gayety is a precious thing; it cannot be bought; happy is he who gives it. I congratulate myself upon being able to present it to you. Can you not give me back half of it, madame?" "Yes, monsieur, come and take it yourself," said Madame de Lorgeville; "but you must use it with discretion before witnesses." "I can assure you, madame, that I have not come to your château in search of gayety. Allow me to escort you to the door and then retire." "You are my prisoner, monsieur, and I shall not grant your request. The arrival of the Prince de Monbert is a piece of good fortune. My husband and I will not be ungrateful to the good genius that brought you here. We shall keep you." "One moment, madame," said I, stopping in front of the château; "I accept the happiness of being retained by you; but will you be good enough to name the persons I am to meet here?" "They are all friends of M. de Monbert." "Friends are the very people I dread, madame." "But they are all women." "Women I dread most of all." "Ah! monsieur, it is quite evident that you have been among savages for ten years." "Savages are the only beings I am not afraid of!"