“I have never loved anybody but you.” He paused. “You know all about such things, _mignonne_. Is it possible for a woman to love two men at the same time—or for a man to love two women at the same time?” She laughed. “It ees the las’ half of the question you wish for to have answer.... I theenk it ees different weeth man and woman. The woman she love only one. She give all.... The man—maybe. It ees ver’ difficult. But I theenk if there ees one large love that it ees all.... And I theenk, Monsieur Ken, that one day you go away and leave me _solitaire_. Oh, I shall to weep.” She clenched her fists and dug them into her eyes, and then laughed up at him. “See, I am ver’ _triste_.... You mus’ make me to be joyous.” She was right, he thought. There could be but one love, one great love. How could he think otherwise, for was she not there, close beside him, her breath upon his cheek, her wonderful eyes turning up to his face every now and then with that inquiring, wondering, speculating glance that spoke to his heart? ... One love, marvelous, sweet, _good_. He could even pause to assert its virtue.... Maude Knox became very dim, intangible. Andree was here, present, living—in all the mystery of her and all the foreign allurement.... This was love. This was an amazing sweetness without which his life would be immeasurably the poorer. It was a permanent thing—could not be uprooted at a moment’s notice. He knew that it had altered, was altering, his whole life, and he was glad. Whatever might come of it, he was glad.... Something had been given to him which would remain a miraculous possession so long as light entered his eyes or reason blossomed in his soul.... “Andree,” he said, tremulously. “Andree....” She sighed with content. “I am ver’ happy,” she replied. “Ever’thing is ver’ well....” CHAPTER XXI Paris awoke to the 14th of July—Bastille Day—without knowing that, as it had marked the beginning of the end of the _ancien régime_, it was now to mark the last hour of the peril of France. It was fitting that this great national fête should bring to an end the days when the _boche_ was to be feared, and that to-morrow was to see the beginning of the end. But Paris did not know. The air was heavy with portent; events impended.... There was present in every heart the apprehension that the unthinkable might happen, and that their beloved city might, within a period of days, fall into the hands of the enemy.... Bastille Day was the last day of the reign of fear.... The event was still on the knees of the gods; Paris could not read the future, but it could make holiday with destruction at its door. The heart of Paris was steadfast.... Its fortitude was on the eve of its reward.