“If you mean I have knowingly encouraged this madness, Monsieur Calvert, believe me, you mistake and wrong me.”

“I do not reproach you,” returned Calvert, smiling sadly.  “I can easily believe you did not mean to show me any kindness.  This folly is all my own, and has become so much a part of me that I think I would not have done with it if I could.  I would give you my life if it would do you any good.  You need not smile so mockingly.  It is no idle assertion, and it would be a poor gift, after all, as it is less than nothing since you will not share it.  I used to wonder what this love was,” he goes on, as if to himself, “that seizes upon men and holds them fast and changes them so.  I think I understand it now, and the beauty of it and the degradation, too.  I love you so that, if by some stroke of fate I could be changed into a prince or a duke, like your Monsieur de Grammont or Monsieur de Noailles, and you would give me your love, as to some such exalted personage, I would be base enough to accept it, though I knew you would never give it to the untitled American.”

“Enough, Monsieur!” said Adrienne, rising in some agitation.  “This conversation is painful to me and I know must be to you.  Had I guessed what you had to say, I would have spared you.”

“No,” returned Calvert, grimly, a wave of crimson suddenly spreading over his pale face (’twas the only sign he gave of the anger and pain gnawing at his heart), “you would have had to listen.  I came to Azay-le-Roi to tell you that I love you.  Do you think I would have gone away without speaking?”

Adrienne regarded him in haughty amazement.

“At least you will do me the favor never to refer to this again?”

“You may rest assured, Madame, that I shall never annoy you again.”  He spoke as haughtily as she, for he was bitterly hurt, and he was young enough to feel a fierce pride in the thought that he, too, would have done with this love which she had so lightly disdained.

He sank down upon the bench and covered his face with his hands.  A sudden spasm of coquetry seized the young girl.

“Then, in case I should ever change my mind, as women have been known to do since time immemorial, Monsieur, I shall have to ask you to marry me!” she said, laughing lightly.

Calvert raised his head wearily.  His face looked as though a dozen years had left their mark upon it since he entered the little allee of elms; there were fine lines of pain about the mouth and a curious, listless look in his usually serene eyes.

“After this morning I cannot believe that you will ever change your mind,” he said, rising as he spoke.  “But be assured that whatever may happen I shall never forget your command and offend again.  And now, as I shall not see you again before we leave, I bid you farewell, Madame.”  He pressed the hand which Adrienne held out to his pale lips, and then holding it for an instant in both of his, turned quickly and left the allee.