o discuss the subject properly. But now I rejoice to see you
more tranquil. Here is the beginning and the middle and the end of the
matter: your marriage is my affair, and I shall do as I like about it."

She searched his face; before his steady look her colour slowly died. M.
Etienne, whether by accident or design, knocked his tray of jewels off
the table. Murmuring profuse apologies, he dropped on his knees to grope
for them. Neither of the men heeded him, but kept their eyes steadily on
the lady.

"Mademoiselle," Mayenne deliberately went on, "I have been over-fond
with you. Had I followed my own interests instead of bowing to your
whims, you had been a wife these two years. I have indulged you,
mademoiselle, because you were my ally Montluc's daughter, because you
came to me a lonely orphan, because you were my little cousin whose
baby mouth I kissed. I have let you cavil at this suitor and that, pout
that one was too tall and one too short, and a third too bold and a
fourth not bold enough. I have been pleased to let you cajole me. But
now, mademoiselle, I am at the end of my patience."

"Monsieur," she cried, "I never meant to abuse your kindness. You let me
cajole you, as you say, else I could not have done it. You treated my
whims as a jest. You let me air them. But when you frowned, I have put
them by. I have always done your will."

"Then do it now, mademoiselle. Be faithful to me and to your birth.
Cease sighing for the enemy of our house."

"Monsieur," she said, "when you first brought him to me, he was not the
enemy of our house. When he came here, day after day, season after
season, he was not our enemy. When I wrote that letter, at Paul's
dictation, I did not know he was our enemy. You told me that night that
I was not for him. I promised you obedience. Did he come here to me and
implore me to wed with him, I would send him away."

Mayenne little imagined how truly she spoke; but he could not look in
her eyes and doubt her honesty.

"You are a good child, Lorance," he said. "I could wish your lover as
docile."

"He will not come here again," she cried. "He knows I am not for him. He
gives it up, monsieur--he takes himself out of Paris. I promise you it
is over. He gives me up."

"I have not his promise for that," Mayenne said dryly; "but the next
time he comes after you, he may settle with your husband."

She uttered a little gasp, but scarce of surprise--almost of relief that
the blow, so lon