It is easy to recover affection that is not lost. Angélique knew her power, and was not indisposed to excess in the exercise of it. “Will you do something for me, Le Gardeur?” asked she, tapping his fingers coquettishly with her fan. “Will I not? Is there anything in earth, heaven, or hell, Angélique, I would not do for you if I only could win what I covet more than life?” “What is that?” Angélique knew full well what he coveted more than life; her own heart began to beat responsively to the passion she had kindled in his. She nestled up closer to his side. “What is that, Le Gardeur?” “Your love, Angélique! I have no other hope in life if I miss that! Give me your love and I will serve you with such loyalty as never man served woman with since Adam and Eve were created.” It was a rash saying, but Le Gardeur believed it, and Angélique too. Still she kept her aim before her. “If I give you my love,” said she, pressing her hand through his thick locks, sending from her fingers a thousand electric fires, “will you really be my knight, my preux chevalier, to wear my colors and fight my battles with all the world?” “I will, by all that is sacred in man or woman! Your will shall be my law, Angélique; your pleasure, my conscience; you shall be to me all reason and motive for my acts if you will but love me!” “I do love you, Le Gardeur!” replied she, impetuously. She felt the vital soul of this man breathing on her cheek. She knew he spoke true, but she was incapable of measuring the height and immensity of such a passion. She accepted his love, but she could no more contain the fulness of his overflowing affection than the pitcher that is held to the fountain can contain the stream that gushes forth perpetually. Angélique was ALMOST carried away from her purpose, however. Had her heart asserted its rightful supremacy--that is, had nature fashioned it larger and warmer--she had there and then thrown herself into his arms and blessed him by the consent he sought. She felt assured that here was the one man God had made for her, and she was cruelly sacrificing him to a false idol of ambition and vanity. The word he pleaded for hovered on her tongue, ready like a bird to leap down into his bosom; but she resolutely beat it back into its iron cage. The struggle was the old one--old as the race of man. In the losing battle between the false and true, love rarely comes out of that conflict unshorn of life or limb. Untrue to him, she was true to her selfish self. The thought of the Intendant and the glories of life opening to her closed her heart, not to the pleadings of Le Gardeur,--them she loved,--but to the granting of his prayer. The die was cast, but she still clasped hard his hand in hers, as if she could not let him go. “And will you do all you say, Le Gardeur--make my will your law, my pleasure your conscience, and let me be to you all reason and motive? Such devotion terrifies me, Le Gardeur?”