Her gaze grew very soft and far away.

"Not as much as they had. We never shall. I think it was because they
both were embittered with life, both a trifle tired and cynical. My
father thought there should be a king of France, and yet I think he knew
there could not be one. Your father--it is another story."

"Quite," I agreed. "And yet Mademoiselle will pardon me--I fail to see
what they had in common."

"You say that," said Mademoiselle, "because you do not know him as well
as I do. Do you not see that he is a bitter, disappointed man? They were
both disappointed."

I examined the bolt on the door, and found it firm, despite its age. I
glanced over the long, low studded room, and moved a chair from the
center to a place nearer the wall. Her glance followed me inquiringly,
but I forestalled her question.

"Mademoiselle," I observed, "was pointing out that she found something
droll in the situation."

"And is it not droll you should have changed him?" she inquired, and yet
I thought she looked around uneasily. "You have, Monsieur. He was
cautious before this. He foresaw everything. He was willing to risk
nothing. He even warned the Marquis against attacking the coach."

I began to perceive why the Marquis honored my father with his
friendship.

"Was attacking coaches a frequent habit of the Marquis?" I asked.

"Has he not told you?" she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows.

"One would hardly call our conversation confidential," I explained. "Is
that what you find so droll?"

And indeed, she seemed in a rare good humor, and inexplicably gay. A
curious Mona Lisa smile kept bending her lips and twinkling in her eyes.
The lowering clouds outside, the creakings of the beams and rafters under
the east wind, nor even the drab gloom of her surroundings seemed to
dampen her sudden access of good nature. The events she had witnessed
seemed also to please her. Was it spite that had made her smile when she
watched my father and his visitors? Was it spite that made her smile now,
as she gazed at the room's battered prosperity, and at my grandfather's
portrait above the mantlepiece, in the unruffled dignity of its
blackening oils?

"It was the coach," said Mademoiselle, "of Napoleon at Montmareuil. A
dozen of them set upon the coach. The lead horses were killed, and in an
instant they were at the doors. They flung them open, but he was not
inside. Instead, the coach was filled with the consular police. The
paper, the paper