bedient to your
pretty whims because I loved you. I love you still. I want you for my
wife. Jeanne, you shall have silks and laces, and golden gauds and
servants to wait on you--"

"I told you, Monsieur, I was not for marriage," she interrupted in the
coldest of tones.

"Every woman is, if you woo her long enough and strong enough."

He tried very earnestly to keep the sneer out of his voice, but hardly
succeeded. His face flushed, his eyes shone with a fierce light. Have
this girl he would. She should see who was master.

"Monsieur, that is ungentlemanly."

"_Monsieur!_ In the old time, it was Louis."

"We have outgrown the old times," carelessly.

"I have not. Nor my love."

"Then I am sorry for you. But it cannot change my mind."

The way was very narrow now. She made a quick motion and passed him. But
she might better have sent him on ahead, instead of giving him this
study of her pliant grace. The exquisite curves of her figure in its
thin, close gown, the fair neck gleaming through the soft curls, the
beautiful shoulders, the slim waist with a ribbon for belt, the light,
gliding step that scarcely moved her, held an enthralling charm. He had
a passionate longing to clasp his arms about her. All the hot blood
within him was roused, and he was not used to being denied.

There was one little turn. Pani was not sitting before the door. Oh,
where was she? A terror seized Jeanne, yet she commanded her voice and
moved just a trifle, though she did not look at him. He saw that she had
paled; she was afraid, and a cruel exultation filled him.

"Monsieur, I am at home," she said. "Your escort was not needed," and
she summoned a vague smile. "There is little harm in our streets, except
when the traders are in, and Pani is generally my guard. Then for us the
soldiers are within call. Good day, Monsieur Marsac."

"Nay, my pretty one, you must be gentler and not so severe to make it a
good day for me. And I am resolved that it shall be. See, Jeanne, I have
always loved you, and though there have been years between I have not
forgotten. You shall be my wife yet. I will not give you up. I shall
stay here in Detroit until I have won you. No other demoiselle would be
so obdurate."

"Because I do not love you, Monsieur," and she gave the appellation its
most formal sound. "And soon I shall begin to hate you!"

Oh, how handsome she looked as she stood there in a kind of noble
indignation, her heart swelling above her