s was distasteful to her sight, she hastily thrust it into
the bosom of her gown. Madame had not slept well of late; there were
shadows under her lovely eyes.

All this while the Chevalier watched her. Several times he put forward
a foot, only to draw it back. This, however, could not go on
indefinitely, so, summoning all his courage, he took a firm step,
another, and another, and there was now no retreating save
ignominiously. For at the sound of his foot on the gravel, madame
discovered him. By the time he stood before her, however, all was well
with him; his courage and wit and daring had returned to do him honor.
This morning he was what he had been a year ago, a gay and rollicking
courtier.

"Madame, what a glorious day it is!" The heron feather almost touched
the path, so elaborate was the courtesy. "Does the day not carry you
back to France?"

Something in his handsome eyes, something in the debonair smile,
something in his whole demeanor, left her without voice. She simply
stared at him, wide-eyed. He sat down beside her, thereby increasing
her confusion.

"I have left Monsieur de Saumaise writing chansons; and here's an
oriole somewhere, singing his love songs. What is it that comes with
summer which makes all male life carry nosegays to my lady's easement?
Faith, it must be in the air. Here's Monsieur Oriole in love; it
matters not if last year's love is not this year's. All he knows is
that it is love. Somewhere in yonder forests the eagle seeks its mate,
the mountain lion its lioness, the red deer its hind."

Madame sat very still and erect. Her forces were scattered, and she
could not summon them to her aid till this man's purpose was made
distinct.

"In all the hundred days of summer will there be a more perfect day for
love than this? Madame, you said that I had lost a valuable art; what
was it?"

Madame began vaguely to believe that he had not lost it. This man was
altogether new to her. Behind all this light converse she recognized a
power. She trembled.

"You need not tell me, Diane; I know what it is. It is the art of
making love. I had not lost it; I had thought that here it was simply
a useless art. When first I saw you I loved you as a boy loves. I ran
hither and thither at your slightest bidding; I was the veriest slave,
and I was happy in my serfdom. You could have asked me any task, and I
should have accomplished it. You were in my thoughts day and night;
not