“She and M. le Comte doubtless have much to say to each other,” I hastened to explain, for I too thought it strange--though the rack itself could not have wrung the admission from me. “Yes--no doubt,” she agreed, but she was plainly not convinced, and still hesitated on the threshold. “It would be cruel to interrupt them,” I added. “Besides, I assure you that I am quite harmless.” This time she permitted her glance to dwell upon me for an instant, and I caught the perfect contour of her face. “I am not so sure of that,” she retorted, “unless your appearance is most deceptive. I think I would better join madame;” and she made a motion toward the door. “If there is any oath I can swear, mademoiselle,” I protested, “prescribe it--I will take it gladly. I will agree to sit here in this corner, if you wish it.” “Oh, you will?” she said; and looked at me doubtfully, but with a glimmer of mischief in her eye. “Yes, mademoiselle; I am capable even of that heroism.” “I hear that you surrendered rather easily this morning,” she taunted. “There was a pistol at my ear,” I explained, “and the face of M. le Comte behind it. I saw no reason to throw away my life for nothing more important than a horse. I am doubly glad now that I was so sensible.” She looked at me, her brows uplifted. “Life means more to me now than it did this morning,” I hastened to explain. “Oh, vastly more! So I rejoice that I am not lying back there on the road with a bullet through me. Even had M. le Comte missed me, I should not be here.” “He would not have missed. A pistol in the hands of M. le Comte is a dangerous thing.” “I have never encountered but one thing more dangerous, mademoiselle.” “And that?” “A pair of brown eyes, levelled at me by a person who knows their power,” I answered, and trembled at my temerity. But instead of being offended she burst into a peal of laughter and advanced into the room. “Really, M. de Tavernay,” she said, her eyes dancing, “I fear that you are not so harmless as you pretend.” “But nevertheless you will remain, mademoiselle; you owe me that reparation.” “Reparation?” she repeated, with raised brows. “For laughing at me. True you turned away your face, but you could not conceal the quivering of your shoulders.” She colored deeply and this time retreated in earnest toward the door. “Oh, do not go,” I pleaded. “I pardon you--it was nothing. Laugh at me again if you wish, only do not go.” She hesitated, stopped, came back. “I _do_ beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said. “Believe me, it was not in the least at you I was laughing, but at a sudden thought--at the strange chance----” She stopped, evidently confused. “Very well,” I hastened to assure her. “I forgive and forget. Or rather, I shall not forget, because you laugh adorably.” “In truth,” she said, with just a touch of malice, “one would imagine you were straight from Versailles instead of----” “Beaufort,” I said, flushing a little.