sted itself. Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulse
answered him.... What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of a
woman--a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience the
content derived from her nearness!

He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was nothing at
all but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary picture of his life there
was now an illumined corner. He had ceased to blame her; she was doing
for her country what he, did necessity so will, would do for his. And
after all, he could not war against a woman--a woman like this. His
innate chivalry was too deep-rooted.

How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed him
night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding Maurice in
regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in femininities; but this
would have been an acknowledgment of his ignorance, and pride closed
his mouth. It was all impossible, but then, why should he return to his
loneliness without attempting to find some one to share it with him? The
king was safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at
ease in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as
sympathy.... Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as a gem
merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy; it was the
key to all he desired--woman's sympathy. There was nothing but ash in
the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.

Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords.
She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to know
and measure its emotion. At times she turned her head and shot a sly
glance at him as he sat there musing. There was a wrinkle of contempt
and amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes. Had Maurice been there
he would have seen it. Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until
doomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after
minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to break
the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could hold Maurice very
long.

"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.

He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I was
thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners here." He
told the lie rather diffidently.

"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and the music
ceased.

"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it