‘Why?’ she answered, quickly taking alarm at; my silence. ‘What of him, M. de Barthe? Why have you mentioned him?’ ‘Because he is here, Mademoiselle.’ ‘Here?’ she exclaimed. ‘At Cocheforet?’ ‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered soberly. ‘I am he.’ CHAPTER X. CLON ‘You!’ she cried, in a voice which pierced my heart. ‘You are M. de Berault? It is impossible!’ But, glancing askance at her--I could not face her I saw that the blood had left her cheeks. ‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered in a low tone. ‘De Barthe was my mother’s name. When I came here, a stranger, I took it that I might not be known; that I might again speak to a good woman, and not see her shrink. That, and--but why trouble you with all this?’ I continued rebelling, against her silence, her turned shoulder, her averted face. ‘You asked me, Mademoiselle, how I could take a blow and let the striker go. I have answered. It is the one privilege M. de Berault possesses.’ ‘Then,’ she replied almost in a whisper, ‘if I were M. de Berault, I would avail myself of it, and never fight again.’ ‘In that event, Mademoiselle,’ I answered coldly, ‘I should lose my men friends as well as my women friends. Like Monseigneur the Cardinal, rule by fear.’ She shuddered, either at the name or at the idea my words called up; and, for a moment, we stood awkwardly silent. The shadow of the sundial fell between us; the garden was still; here and there a leaf fluttered slowly down. With each instant of that silence, of that aversion, I felt the gulf between us growing wider, I felt myself growing harder; I mocked at her past which was so unlike mine; I mocked at mine, and called it fate. I was on the point of turning from her with a bow--and with a furnace in my breast--when she spoke. ‘There is a last rose lingering there,’ she said, a slight tremor in her voice. ‘I cannot reach it. Will you pluck it for me, M. de Berault?’ I obeyed her, my hand trembling, my face on fire. She took the rose from me, and placed it in the bosom of her dress, And I saw that her hand trembled too, and that her cheek was dark with blushes. She turned without more ado, and began to walk towards the house. ‘Heaven forbid that I should misjudge you a second time!’ she said in a low voice. ‘And, after all, who am I, that I should judge you at all? An hour ago I would have killed that man had I possessed the power.’ ‘You repented, Mademoiselle,’ I said huskily. I could scarcely speak. ‘Do you never repent?’ she said. ‘Yes. But too late, Mademoiselle.’ ‘Perhaps it is never too late,’ she answered softly. ‘Alas, when a man is dead--’