"I know. But you are here--to be seen--not when I want you, for that would be every hour of the day--but, at least, in times of emergency. You are here, all the same, in the atmosphere of my life." "And if I go abroad I shall no longer be in that atmosphere? Did I not say you would forget?" She laughed. Then quickly started forward, and, elbow on knee and chin on palm, regarded him brightly. "We are talking like a couple of people out of Mademoiselle de Scudery," she said before he had time to reply. "And we are in the twentieth century, mon pauvre ami. We must be sensible. I know that you will miss me. And I will miss you too. Mais que voulez-vous? We have to obey the laws of the world we live in." "Need we?" asked Paul daringly. "Why need we?" "We must. I must go away to my own country. You must stay in yours and work and fulfill your ambitions." She paused. "I want you to be a great man," she said, with a strange tenderness in her voice. "With you by my side," said he, "I feel I could conquer the earth." "As your good friend I shall always be by your side. Vous voyez, mon cher Paul," she went on quickly in French. "I am not quite as people see me. I am a woman who is lonely and not too happy, who has had disillusions which have embittered her life. You know my history. It is public property. But I am young. And my heart is healed--and it craves faith and tenderness and--and friendship. I have many to flatter me. I am not too ugly. Many men pay their court to me, but they do not touch my heart. None of them even interest me. I don't know why. And then I have my rank, which imposes on me its obligations. Sometimes I wish I were a little woman of nothing at all, so that I could do as I like. Mais enfin, I do what I can. You have come, Paul Savelli, with your youth and your faith and your genius, and you pay your court to me like the others. Yes, it is true--and as long as it was amusing, I let it go on. But now that you interest me, it is different. I want your success. I want it with all my heart. It is a little something in my life--I confess it--quelque chose de tres joli--and I will not spoil it. So let us be good friends, frank and loyal--without any Scudery." She looked at him with eyes that had lost their languor--a sweet woman's eyes, a little moist, very true. "And now," she said, "will you be so kind as to put a log on the fire." Paul rose and threw a log on the glowing embers, and stood by her side. He was deeply moved. Never before had she so spoken. Never before had she afforded a glimpse of the real woman. Her phrases, so natural, so sincere, in her own tongue, and so caressive, stirred the best in him. The glamour passed from the royal lady; only the sweet and beautiful woman remained. "I will be what you will, my Princess," he said.