His voice faltered, and he broke off abruptly.

“I wish you were going with me to Berlin,” said he, after a long silence which I had not attempted to interrupt.

“I wish with all my heart that I were!”

“And yet,” he added, “I am glad on—­on her account, that you remain in Paris.  You will call upon her sometimes, Arbuthnot?”

“If Madame De Cour....  I mean, if Mrs. Dalrymple will permit me.”

An involuntary smile flitted across his lips—­the first I had seen there all the day.

“She will be glad—­grateful.  She knows that I value you, and she has proof that I trust you.  You are the only possessor of our secret.”

“It is as safe with me,” I said, “as if I were dead, and in my grave.”

“I know it, old fellow.  Well—­you will see her sometimes.  You will write to me, and tell me how she is looking.  If—­if she were to fall ill, you would not conceal it from me? and in case of any emergency—­any annoyance arising from De Caylus ...”

“Were she my own sister,” I said, earnestly, “she would not find me readier to assist or defend her.  Of this, Dalrymple, be assured.”

“Thank you,” he said, and stretched up his hand to me.  “I do believe you are true—­though there are few men, and still fewer women, of whom I should like to say as much.  By the way, Arbuthnot, beware of that little flirt, Madame de Marignan.  She has charming eyes, but no more heart than a vampire.  Besides, an entanglement with a married woman!... cela ne se peut pas, mon cher.  You are too young to venture on such dangerous ground, and too inexperienced.”

I smiled—­perhaps somewhat bitterly—­for the wound was still fresh, and I could not help wincing when any hand came near it.

“You are right,” I replied.  “Madame de Marignan is a dangerous woman; but dangerous for me no longer.  However, I have paid rather dearly for my safety.”

And with this, I told him the whole story from beginning to end, confessing all my follies without reservation.  Surprised, amused, sometimes unable to repress a smile, sometimes genuinely compassionate, he heard my narrative through, accompanying it from time to time with muttered comments and ejaculations, none of which were very flattering to Madame de Marignan.  When I had done, he sprang to his feet, laid his hand heavily upon my shoulder, and said:—­

“Damon, there are a great many disagreeable things in life which wise people say are good for us, and for which they tell us we ought to be grateful in proportion to our discomfort.  For my own part, however, I am no optimist.  I am not fond of mortifying the flesh, and the eloquence of Socrates would fail to persuade me that a carbuncle was a cheerful companion, or the gout an ailment to be ardently desired.  Yet, for all this, I cannot say that I look upon your adventure in the light of a misfortune.  You have lost time, spent money, and endured a considerable amount of aggravation; but you have, on the other hand, acquired ease of manner, facility of conversation, and just that necessary polish which fits a man for society.  Come! you have received a valuable lesson both in morals and manners; so farewell to Madame de Marignan, and let us write Pour acquit against the score!”