They went up together.  Half-way up she slipped her hand into his, with a soft little laugh.  “It’s like old times, Bertie.  Don’t break the spell, preux chevalier.  Let us pretend—­just for to-night!”

They found Cinders imprisoned in a little sitting-room at the top of the house which Chris shared with her cousin.  His greeting of Bertrand was effusive, even rapturous.  Like his mistress, he never forgot a friend.

Afterwards they sat and talked of many things, chiefly connected with Valpre.  There was so much to remember—­Mademoiselle Gautier and her queer, conventual prejudices, Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her funny stories of the shore.

“She quite believed in the spell,” Chris said.  “She almost frightened me with it.”

“Without doubt there was a spell,” said Bertrand gravely.

“You really think so?  I never believed in it after that night.”

“No?” he said.  “And yet it was there.”

Chris peered at him.  “You talk as if it were something quite substantial,” she said.

“It was substantial,” he made answer, and then with a sudden smile into her wondering eyes:  “As substantial, cherie, as my rope of sand that was to make my work endure like—­like the Sphinx and Cleopatra’s Needle and—­and—­” He broke off with his eloquent shrug, paused a moment, then—­“and—­our friendship, if you will,” he ended.

“Ah, fancy your remembering that!” she said.  “But I believe you remember everything.”

“That is the spell,” he said.

“Is it, Bertie?  And do you remember the duel, and how you wouldn’t tell me what it was all about?  Tell me now!” she begged, as a child pleading for a story.  “I always wanted to know.”

But his face darkened instantly.  “Not that, petite.  He was bad.  He was scelerat.  We will not speak of him.”

“But, Bertie, I’m grown-up now.  I’m quite old enough to know,” she urged, with a coaxing hand upon his arm.

He took the hand, turned it upwards, stroked the soft palm very reverently.  “I pray that you will never be old enough, Chris,” he said, and in the shaded lamplight she saw that his face had grown suddenly melancholy, almost haggard.  “The knowledge of evil is a poisonous thing.  Those who find it can never be young again.”

His manner awed her a little.  She did not pursue the point with her customary persistence.  “Well, tell me what happened afterwards,” she said.  “He got well again?”

“Yes, petite.”

“And—­you forgave each other?”

“Never!” Bertrand raised his head and shot out the word with emphasis.

“Never, Bertie?” Chris looked at him, slightly startled.

He looked back at her, faintly smiling, but with the melancholy still in his eyes.  “Never,” he repeated.  “That shocks you, no?”

“Not really,” she said loyally.  “I’m sure he was horrid.  He looked it.  Then—­you are enemies still?”