“No matter,” she broke in. “Nothing is so wearisome as to have to explain one’s meaning--unless it be to listen to the explanation. I am sure it argues dulness somewhere.” “I am sorry that I bore you,” I retorted, stung to a sort of desperation. “I had hoped that I might at least continue to furnish you amusement.” “Really,” she cried, casting me a brilliant glance, “not a bad _riposte_. Come, we are quits, then?” “With all my heart,” I agreed; “especially since you have removed your button.” “Well, finish it,” she cried, her eyes dancing. “Finish it.” “While I am too gallant to follow your example,” I added, relentlessly. “Good!” she applauded. “_Touché!_ I assure you, monsieur, you are not boring me in the least. All you need is a little practise, a little more assurance--you hesitate, as all beginners do, to drive the point home----” “I am not bloodthirsty,” I interrupted. “On the contrary, I am of a disposition the most amiable.” “And there is still about you a slight clumsiness,” she went on, not heeding me, “a lack of style and finish.” “Remember, I have never been to Paris,” I reminded her, “nor even to Orléans.” “I shall not remember it long, for there will soon be nothing about you to suggest it.” I bowed my thanks. “Especially if I may remain near you,” I said. “Oh that--of course!” she agreed. “Well, you have my permission, and you will find M. le Comte most hospitable; so remain, unless this mysterious business of yours is imperative.” “It is,” I said, my face clouding again. “I must set out at daybreak.” “Ungallant man!” she retorted, looking at me with sparkling eyes. “Do you ask a favor only to refuse it? Do you understand what you are saying?” “Only too well, mademoiselle,” I murmured desolately; “and I would rather have cut off my right hand than utter those words.” “Still the riddle!” she cried, with a gesture of despair. “Really, monsieur, you weary me. Whatever it is you desire, I advise you to ask for it. One gets nothing in this world without asking--and if it is refused, taking it just the same.” “But when one may neither ask nor take, mademoiselle?” “Oh, then,” she retorted, with a shrug of the shoulders, “one is certainly in a bad way. One would better stop desiring;” and she turned her shoulder to me in the most impudent manner possible and gave her attention to M. le Comte. “It is La Vendée which will re-establish monarchy in France,” he was saying, his face alight. “Those peasants are unconquerable. There are two hundred thousand of them, peaceful men, tilling the soil, tending their herds, as they had always done, with no thought of resisting the Republic until the Republic attempted to take from them their priests and to draft them forth to fight on the frontiers. Then they rose as one man, fell upon their oppressors, routed them, cut them to pieces among the hedges. Now they are back in their homes again to make their Easter; that over, they will march against Thouars and Saumur.”