I do not claim any credit for my chivalrous attitude towards her. It seemed to me a sort of duty when, as various hints had warned me, I became aware that a devouring lion in the semblance of King Francis I was prowling round my young _protégée_. This duplicity, which did credit to M. de Bévallan’s audacity, was carried on, under cover of a friendly interest, with an astuteness and confidence well calculated to deceive the careless and unsuspecting. Mme. Laroque and her daughter, especially, are too little acquainted with the wickedness of this world, and too little in touch with realities to have the slightest suspicion. For my own part, I was angry with this insatiable lady-killer, and did my best to spoil his plans. More than once I secured the attention he desired to monopolize; and I tried more especially to counteract or diminish the bitter sense of neglect and isolation, which makes women in Mlle. Hélouin’s position ready to accept the kind of consolation which was being offered to her. Have I ever throughout this ill-advised contest outstepped the delicate limits of brotherly protection? I think not. The very words of the brief dialogue which has suddenly altered the character of our relations bear witness to my discretion. One evening last week we were taking the air on the terrace. During the day I had had occasion to show some kindly attention to Mlle. Hélouin, and she now took my arm and said, as she bit at an orange-blossom with her small white teeth: "M. Maxime, you are very good to me." Her voice was a little unsteady. "I hope so, mademoiselle." "You are a true friend." "Yes, indeed." "But what kind of a friend?" "A true friend, as you say." "A friend who—loves me?" "Surely." "Much?" "Most decidedly." "Passionately?" "No." At this word, which I uttered very clearly and with a steady look, Mlle. Hélouin flung the orange-blossom away and dropped my arm. Since this unlucky hour I have been treated with a contempt I do not deserve, and I should have been convinced that friendship between man and woman is a mere illusion, if I had not had on the following day something like an antithesis to this adventure. I had gone to spend the evening at the château, and as the two or three families who had been staying there for the last fortnight had left in the morning, I met only the _habitués_—the curé, the tax-collector, Dr. Desmarets, and General de Saint-Cast and his wife, who, like the doctor, lived at the neighbouring little town. When I came in, Mme. de Saint-Cast, who had apparently brought her husband a handsome fortune, was in close conversation with Mme. Aubry. As usual, these ladies were in perfect agreement. In language in which distinction of form rivalled elevation of thought, they, like two shepherds in an eclogue, alternately lauded the incomparable charms of wealth.