ir!" she retorted, her eyes kindling
again.

"Upon my honour, 't was no more than that. I pulled the cloth from
the table whilst he ate. He was a quick-tempered gentleman, and my
playfulness offended him. That is all."

Doubt appeared in her eyes, and it may have entered her mind that
perchance her judgment had been over-hasty.

"Do you mean, sir, that you provoked a duel?"

"Alas, Madame! It had become necessary. You see, M. de Canaples--"

"Who?" Her voice rang sharp as the crack of a pistol.

"Eh? M. de Canaples."

"Was it he whom you killed?"

From her tone, and the eager, strained expression of her face, it was
not difficult to read that some mighty interest of hers was involved in
my reply. It needed not the low moan that burst from her companion to
tell me so.

"As I have said, Madame, it is possible that he is not dead--nay, even
that he will not die. For the rest, since you ask the question, my
opponent was, indeed, M. de Canaples--Eugene de Canaples."

Her face went deadly white, and she sank back in her seat as if every
nerve in her body had of a sudden been bereft of power, whilst she of
the fair hair burst into tears.

A pretty position was this for me!--luckily it endured not. The girl
roused herself from her momentary weakness, and, seizing the cord, she
tugged it violently. The coach drew up.

"Alight, sir," she hissed--"go! I wish to Heaven that I had left you to
the vengeance of the people."

Not so did I; nevertheless, as I alighted: "I am sorry, Madame, that you
did not," I answered. "Adieu!"

The coach moved away, and I was left standing at the corner of the Rue
St. Honore and the Rue des Bons Enfants, in the sorriest frame of mind
conceivable. The lady in the coach had saved my life, and for that I was
more grateful perchance than my life was worth. Out of gratitude sprang
a regret for the pain that I had undoubtedly caused her, and the sorrow
which it might have been my fate to cast over her life.

Still, regret, albeit an admirable sentiment, was one whose existence
was usually brief in my bosom. Dame! Had I been a man of regrets I might
have spent the remainder of my days weeping over my past life. But
the gods, who had given me a character calculated to lead a man
into misfortune, had given me a stout heart wherewith to fight that
misfortune, and an armour of recklessness against which remorse,
regrets, aye, and conscience itself, rained blows in vain.

And so it befell tha