used, as if hesitating,
while I stood hat in hand, as I had done during our conversation.

"I wonder if I can trust you."

She took her purse from the bag hanging at her waist and drew out a gold
piece.

"I will give you this if you promise not to tell your Master that you
have spoken to me this afternoon."

I shrank back. Remember I had been for three years in the hourly
companionship of a man of lofty soul for all his waywardness, and he had
modelled me like wax to his liking. The gold piece was tempting. I had
never owned a gold piece in my life--and all the frost had melted from
Joanna's eyes. But I felt I should be dishonored in taking money.

"I promise without that," I said.

She put the coin back in her purse and held out her delicately gloved
hand.

"Promise with this, then," she said.

And then I knew for the first time what an exquisite sensitive thing is
a sweet, high-bred lady. Only such a one could have performed that act
of grace. She converted me into a besotted little imbecile weltering in
bliss. I would have pledged my soul's welfare to execute any
phantasmagoric behest she had chosen to ordain.

"I am leaving Aix tomorrow morning--but if you are ever in any
trouble--by the way what is your name?"

"Asticot Pradel," said I, reflecting for the first time that though
Polydore Pradel had perished and Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot reigned in
his stead, my own borrowed or invented name remained unaltered. Augustus
Smith lingered in my memory as a vague, mythical creature of no account.

Joanna smiled. "You are a little masquerader too. Well--if you are ever
in any trouble, and I can help you--remember the Comtesse de Verneuil, 7
Avenue de Messine, Paris."

This offer of friendship took my breath away. I grinned stupidly at her.
I was also puzzled.

"What is the matter?" she laughed.

"The Comtesse de Verneuil?--but you are English," I stammered.

"Yes. But my husband is French. He is the Comte de Verneuil. Remember 7
Avenue de Messine."

She nodded graciously and turned away leaving a stupefied Asticot
twirling his hat. Her husband! And I had been calling her Mademoiselle
all the time! And I had been weaving fairy tales of our riding off with
her to Paragot's castle! She was married. Her husband was the Comte de
Verneuil! Worse than that. Her husband was the disagreeable beaky-nosed
man who gave me five sous to go away.

A sense of desolation, disaster, disillusionment overwhelmed me. I