r, she could not rebuke. Thus, he
was more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day. Ah, that
mad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to New
France instead of Spain! Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and De
Montbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was never
plentiful in that blood. She was to learn something to-night, if only
the purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.

"In here, Madame," said the vicomte, courteously, "if you will do me
that honor."

A glance told madame that she had been in this room before. Did they
burn candles every night in here, or had the vicomte, relying upon a
woman's innate curiosity, lighted these candles himself? Her gaze,
traveling along the oak table, discovered a few particles of burnt
paper. Her face grew warm.

The vicomte closed the door gently, leaving the key in the lock. She
followed, each movement with eyes as keen and wary as a cat's. He drew
out a chair, walked around the table and selected another chair.

"Will you not sit down, Madame?"

"I prefer to stand, Monsieur."

"As you please. Pardon me, but I am inclined to sit down."

"Will you be brief?"

"As possible." The vicomte took in a long breath, reached a hand into
his breast and drew out a folded paper, oblong in shape.

At the sight of this madame's eyes first narrowed, then grew wide and
round.

"Begin, Monsieur," a suspicion of tremor in her tones.

"Well, then: fate or fortune has made you free; fate or fortune has
brought you into this wilderness. Here, civilization becomes less fine
in the grain; men reach forth toward objects brusquely and boldly.
Well, Madame, you know that for the past year I have loved you silently
and devotedly. . . ."

"If that is all, Monsieur . . . !" scornfully.

"Patience!" He tapped the paper with his hand. "Is there not
something about the shape of this paper, Madame, that is familiar?
Does it not recall to your mind something of vital importance?"

Madame placed her hand upon the back of the chair and the ends of her
fingers grew white from the pressure.

"The great Beaufort has scrawled negligently across this paper; the
sly, astute Gaston. My name is here, and so is yours, Madame. My name
would never have been here but for your beauty, which was a fine lure.
Listen. As for my name, there lives in the Rue Saint Martin a friend
who plays at alchemy. He has a liquid which will dissolve ink, erase
it,