“Who wished to form you?” she demanded quickly with a peremptoriness that astonished me. “Why, old Dubosq,” I answered. “The fellow who halted me just out of Tours.” She breathed a sigh of relief which astonished me even more than had her question. “He was a man, that fellow,” I added. “I should like to meet him again--a dashing rascal.” “Of course--he flattered you,” she said, looking at me coolly. “I know what he said to you as well as though I had heard him say it.” “What did he say?” “He said, ‘All you need, my friend, is a little more polish, and you will be a perfect devil with the ladies.’” I stared at her, my mouth open, for she had caught Dubosq’s intonation to a shade. “And then he leered,” she added, “and twisted his mustaches. But the most disgusting thing is that you believed him, and you smirked and would have twisted your mustaches too, but that you are too young to have any. Oh, men are all alike--foul, despicable creatures! And then you come here, riding very erect, those words repeating themselves over and over in your bosom--and you pretend----” She broke off suddenly, and turned upon me furiously. “Are you in the habit of attacking young women in that fashion?” she demanded. “No, mademoiselle,” I stammered, shrinking from this terrific assault which touched every joint in my armor. “I have never before kissed a young woman.” She looked at me again, caught her breath, her hand against her heart; and then she blushed and smiled and her eyes grew very tender. By some miracle I had found the answer that turned away wrath. “There, M. de Tavernay,” she said, holding out her hand impulsively, “I forgive you from my heart. We shall be friends. And forget that nonsense I was talking.” I bent and kissed the fingers, so warm, so soft, so fragrant. “If I might have a pledge of it,” I said, with sudden boldness. “That flower at your breast----” “Nonsense!” she cried. “You need no pledge of it. And now,” she added, “I must be going in. Madame will be terribly scandalized.” “Oh, do not go,” I protested, and retained her hand in mine. “Think--we may never again be alone together--certainly never like this, in an enchanted garden, with the moon looking down upon us, full of counsel and encouragement.” “The moon has never been noted for the wisdom of its counsel,” she retorted; “and as for encouragement, you certainly need none.” “But give me a little longer,” I pleaded, trembling at the thought of parting from her. “Sit here beside me and let me look at you. Ah, I already know every feature, every curl of the hair. It is not at that I wish to look, but at the soul in your eyes. I know you do not love me, and yet it seems to me that your soul and mine were destined for each other. I cannot really believe that we are to be kept apart. I hear within myself a voice which says that there can be no happiness for me apart from you. I ask for nothing more than to sit on here forever with you beside me, your hand in mine.”