"You once called me an amazing parrot, Madame," said I. "It is quite
true."

"In the meantime," said she, "we can't stand in the Place Vendome for
ever. Come for a drive and we can talk in the carriage."

"In the----" I gasped stupefied, pointing to the victoria.

"Why not?" she laughed. "Do you think it's dangerous?"

"No," said I, "but----"

But she was already in the carriage; and as I stepped in beside her I
noted the tips of her little feet so adored by Paragot.

"I'm glad you're English," she remarked, arranging the rug. "A young
Frenchman would have replied with the obvious gallantry. I think the
young Englishman rather despises that kind of obviousness."

The coachman turned on his seat and asked whither he should drive Madame
la Comtesse.

"Anywhere. I don't know"--then desperately, "Drive to the
fortifications. Where the fortifications are I haven't the remotest
idea. I believe they are a kind of pleasure resort for people who want
to get murdered. You hear of them in the papers. We'll cross the river,"
she said to the coachman.

We started, drove down the Rue Castiglione, along the Rue de Rivoli,
struck off by the Louvre and over the Pont Neuf. Standing in
conversation with Joanna, I had the gutter urchin's confidence of the
pavement, the impudence of the street. Seated beside Madame la Comtesse
de Verneuil in an elegant victoria I was as dumb as a fish, until her
graciousness set me more at my ease. As we passed through the _Quartier_
I trembled lest any of my fellow students should see me. "_Asticot avec
une femme du monde chic! Il court les bonnes fortunes ce sacre petit
diable. Ou l'as-tu pechee?_" I shivered at their imagined ribaldries.
And all the time I was athrill with pride and joy--suffused therewith
into imbecility. Verily I must be a _monsieur_ to drive with Countesses!
And verily it must be fairyland for Asticot to be driving in Joanna's
carriage.

"That is Henri Quatre," said she pointing to the statue as we crossed
the bridge.

"It was the first thing my Master brought me to see in Paris--years
ago," I said, with the very young's curious mis-realisation of time. "He
is very fond of Henri Quatre."

"Why?" she asked.

I told her vaguely the story of the crusader's mace. She listened with a
somewhat startled interest.

"I believe your Master is mad," she remarked. "Indeed," she added after
a pause, "I believe everyone is mad. I'm mad. You're mad."

"Oh, I am not," I cried w