d keep you safe until Monsieur Florimond comes to
claim his bride."

She sipped her wine, then set down the glass and leaned her elbow on the
table, taking her chin in her fine white hand. "Madame tells me that he
is dead," said she, and Garnache was shocked at the comparative calmness
with which she said it. He looked at her sharply from under his sooted
brows. Was she, after all, he wondered, no different from other women?
Was she cold and calculating, and had she as little heart as he had come
to believe was usual with her sex, that she could contemplate so calmly
the possibility of her lover being dead? He had thought her better, more
natural, more large-hearted and more pure. That had encouraged him to
stand by her in these straits of hers, no matter at what loss of dignity
to himself. It began to seem that his conclusions had been wrong.

His silence caused her to look up, and in his face she read something of
what was passing in his thoughts. She smiled rather wanly.

"You are thinking me heartless, Monsieur de Garnache?"

"I am thinking you--womanly."

"The same thing, then, to your mind. Tell me, monsieur, do you know much
of women?"

"God forbid! I have found trouble enough in my life."

"And you pass judgment thus upon a sex with which you have no
acquaintance?"

"Not by acquaintance only is it that we come to knowledge. There are
ways of learning other than by the road of experience. One may learn of
dangers by watching others perish. It is the fool who will be satisfied
alone with the knowledge that comes to him from what he undergoes
himself."

"You are very wise, monsieur," said she demurely, so demurely that he
suspected her of laughing at him. "You were never wed?"

"Never, mademoiselle," he answered stiffly, "nor ever in any danger of
it."

"Must you, indeed, account it a danger?"

"A deadly peril, mademoiselle," said he; whereupon they both laughed.

She pushed back her chair and rose slowly. Slowly she passed from the
table and stepped towards the window. Turning she set her back to it,
and faced him.

"Monsieur de Garnache," said she, "you are a good man, a true and noble
gentleman. I would that you thought a little better of us. All women are
not contemptible, believe me. I will pray that you may yet mate with one
who will prove to you the truth of what I say."

He smiled gently, and shook his head.

"My child," said he, "I am not half the noble fellow you account me. I
have a