“A soldier does not sit in the presence of his commander,” I protested. “What! Rebellion already!” she cried. “A fine beginning, truly!” I sat down, a little giddy at this unexpected kindness. “And now,” she continued severely, “you will repeat after me the following words: Mademoiselle de Chambray----” “Mademoiselle de Chambray----” “I know you are only a silly girl----” “I know nothing of the sort,” I protested. “Will you obey my orders, M. de Tavernay, or will you not?” she inquired sternly. “No one can be compelled to perjure himself,” I answered doggedly. “Nor shall I compel you to do so. We will continue then: I know you are only a silly girl, yet even a silly girl should hesitate to do a friend malicious injury. Nevertheless I will forgive you, for I see how you yourself regret it and I am too generous to strike back, even though you deserve it.” I looked down at her and saw that there were indeed tears in the eyes which she turned up to me. She held out her hand with a little tremulous smile. “Will you not forgive me, my friend?” she asked. I seized the hand and covered it with kisses. “I adore you!” I cried. “Adore you!--adore you!” And I would have asked nothing better, nothing sweeter, than to die there at her feet, with her warm hand in mine and her eyes enfolding me in a lambent flame which raised me to a height that kings might envy. For in that instant I knew that she loved me. CHAPTER XXI. FALSE PRETENSES. BUT only for the merest breath did she permit her soul to stand unveiled before me. Then she drew her hand away and fenced herself again with that invulnerable armor. “Come, my friend,” she said, and her voice sounded a trifle unsteady in my ears, “we must be going on--we have a long journey still before us.” I arose like a drunken man. I dared not believe what that glimpse of glory had revealed to me; it seemed too wonderful, too stupendous to be true. I had looked into her soul and seen love there--but was it really there? Or was it merely the reflection of what my own soul disclosed? I glanced down at her, but she was staring straight before her as she walked steadily forward with a face so cold and impassive that the doubt grew, enwrapped me, darkened to conviction. It was folly to suppose that her eyes had really revealed their secret; it was absurd to believe that such a secret lay behind them. Who was I that I should hope to waken love in the breast of such a woman as this? Pity, perhaps--sympathy, friendship, kindness--anything but the deep, splendid passion I hungered for. She had been moved for the moment, but plainly she already regretted her emotion. Well, I certainly would never remind her of it.