“Yes; it has never yet failed me. To-day--or rather yesterday--after apparently plunging me into the depths of an abyss it drew me forth and led me straight to you.” “And to this trap.” “Ah, mademoiselle; beside the other, that does not matter!” She turned from me with a gesture of impatience. “Your mind travels always in a circle.” “Of which you are the centre, mademoiselle. What other figure could my mind describe, revolving as it does about you?” “You have an answer always ready,” she retorted; “nevertheless I think your star would have done better by you had it permitted you to continue your journey to Poitiers unmolested. You would have arrived there with a free heart, ready to fulfil your oath to your father; you would have had no temptation to forget your honor; your life would have been calm and happy.” “The life of an ox would answer that description,” I answered. “Yet I am very far from envying the ox.” “And there you are wrong. Besides, I have still to add that as it stands you have no future before you. You have come to the end of the path.” “So much the better,” I said, drawing nearer to her. “Since there is no future, let us love each other. Let us approach the end heart against heart.” She did not answer, only stared moodily down over the parapet. The château was wholly given over to the flames. They burst from every window; they roared above the roof, and their scorching breath caused us to shrink back a little. “It is heart-breaking!” she cried, shielding her face with her hand; and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. “That beautiful home! Ah, those wretches will be punished!” “What would you do with them, mademoiselle?” I asked. “I would hang them every one. Men and women alike. Men and women--beasts!” And as I noted the sudden clenching of her hands and flashing of her eyes, I could not but wonder at the complexities of woman’s nature. “Let us not look at them,” I said. “Let us forget that they exist. Let us remember only that we are here together and that there is no future. Let us sit down here in the shadow of the wall and imagine that we are again in the garden.” “My imagination cannot touch such heroic heights, M. de Tavernay. In the garden, I was happy, or nearly so----” “You confess it, then?” I broke in eagerly; but she stopped me with a gesture. “I have always been happy--at least until the past few days. And in the garden I fancied that even the little cloud which seemed to shadow me would disappear. Now, on the contrary, I am far from happy.” “You are at least no coward,” I said. “You are not afraid.”