“Innocently, monsieur:  for I have always endeavored to keep Monsieur du Bouchage at a distance.”

“That is termed the art of coquetry, madame; and the result proves the fault.”

“No one has the right to accuse me, monsieur; I am guilty of nothing.  Your feelings of irritation are aroused against me; I shall say no more.”

“Oh, oh!” said Joyeuse, gradually working himself into a passion, “you have been the ruin of my brother, and you fancy you can justify yourself with this irritating majesty of demeanor.  No, no! the steps I have taken must show you what my intentions are.  I am serious, I assure you, and you see by the trembling of my hands and lips that you will need some good arguments to move me.”

The hospitaliere rose.

“If you come here to insult a woman,” she said, with the same calm self-possession, “insult me, monsieur; if, however, you have come to induce me to change my opinion, you are wasting your time, and can withdraw.”

“Ah! you are no human creature!” exclaimed Joyeuse, exasperated.  “You are possessed by an evil spirit.”

“I have answered already; I will reply no further.  Since that is not sufficient, I shall withdraw.”  And the hospitaliere advanced toward the door.

Joyeuse stopped her.

“One moment!  I have sought you for too long a period to allow you to leave me in this manner; and, since I have succeeded in meeting with you—­since your insensibility has confirmed me in the idea which had already occurred to me, that you are possessed by the foul fiend himself, sent hither by the enemy of mankind to destroy my brother—­I wish to see that face whereon the bottomless pit has written its blackest traces; I wish to behold the fire of that fatal gaze which bewilders men’s minds.  Avaunt thee, Satan!”

And Joyeuse, making the sign of the cross with one hand, as if he were exorcising her, with the other tore aside the veil which covered the face of the hospitaliere; the latter, silent and impassible, free from anger or ill-feeling, fixed her sweet and gentle gaze upon him who had so cruelly outraged her, and said:  “Oh!  Monsieur le Duc, what you have just done is unworthy a gentleman.”

Joyeuse’s heart was smitten by her reply.

“Oh! madame,” he murmured after a long silence, “you are indeed beautiful, and truly must Henri have loved you.  Surely Heaven can only have bestowed upon you loveliness such as you possess to cast it like perfume upon an existence devoted to your own.”

“Monsieur, have you not conversed with your brother? or, if you have done so, he cannot have thought it expedient to make you his confidant; had not that been the case, he would have told you that I have done what you say—­I have loved; I shall never love again; I have lived and must die.”

Joyeuse had never taken his eyes from Diana’s face, and the soft and gentle expression of her gaze penetrated the inmost recesses of his being.