Mademoiselle Becquet resisted, though faintly, the proffered assistance. There was, after all, something of the moral _hors-d’œuvre_, of the appetisingly unexpected, about this early capture of her slim waist by a shapely masculine arm. Finally she turned her head away, and, with a sigh, yielded herself to the embrace just as it appeared about to be withdrawn. “You are better?” said Tiretta anxiously. She gulped, still panting a little. “It was the suddenness, monsieur. My heart is weak.” (The wicked fibster! It was as tough as indiarubber, what there was of it.) He expressed his compunction: “And soft, I am sure,” said he, “on behalf of a penitent sinner.” She smiled, in a recovered way. “If you please, monsieur. But you need not take advantage of that absolution. A soft heart is the most fatal possession a girl can own to in this bad world. It were as foolish as to flaunt her jewels in the Ghetto.” Tiretta, with a laugh, released the slender waist. “If you can stand alone,” he said. “O, yes!” she answered--and indeed there was no doubt she could. He looked at her with a twinkling gravity. “What is your name, child?” She dipped him a demure little curtsey. “Fanchette Becquet, at your service, monsieur. I am her Highness’s confidential maid.” “She is prettily served, Fanchette.” “And handsomely, I am sure, monsieur. You see I return the compliment.” He laughed again at her insolence--and checked himself suddenly. “What on earth do you mean by that?” “O!” she said innocently: “do you not love my mistress? Everybody loves her.” He breathed again. There was safety in generalisations. “If everybody loves her, then I suppose I must,” he said. She clapped her pink hands. “I will tell her. She will like to know that.” He stared at the girl aghast; then nipped one of her slender wrists. “If you dare! Are you off your head?” “Perhaps, monsieur. You see you startled me so.” “I don’t believe a word of it. I believe this was premeditated.” “Yes, that is quite true.” “It was?” “I saw you coming before you saw me. I thought I should like to be her Highness’s proxy for your attentions. I would have let you kiss me, if you had offered.” He released her, and stepped back. “You are certainly mad,” he exclaimed. She laughed: they were quite alone: then came close up to him. “Would you like to practise again on me, monsieur--to test the softness of her heart by deputy? No?” “I am no thief,” he said, as if stupefied. “Keep your jewels, for what I care.” “That is well,” she answered mockingly, “since they are bespoken by another. Only I love an intrigue.” He commanded himself by a great effort; assumed a chilling masterfulness, if he did not feel it. “Listen to me,” he said. “I cannot pretend to know on what false and vicious assumptions you are daring thus to impeach my honour. They are mistaken, whatever they are; and let that suffice for you.” Fanchette set her lips tight, and nodded her head once or twice.