“I beg your pardon,” said I politely, “but you evidently misunderstand me.  I wish to enter.”

She peered at me through the two-inch gap my timely foot had preserved.

“But it is impossible,” she objected.  “Our rules do not allow it.  Indeed, I may not talk to you.  I beg of you to move your foot.”

“But then you would shut the door.”

She could not deny it.

“I mean no harm,” I protested.

“‘The guile of the wicked is infinite,’” remarked the little nun.

“I want to see the Mother Superior,” said I.  “Will you take my name to her?”

I heard another step in the passage.  The door was flung wide open, and a stout and stately old lady faced me, a frown on her brow.

“Madame,” said I, “until you hear my errand you will think me an ill-mannered fellow.”

“What is your business, sir?”

“It is for your ear alone, madame.”

“You can’t come in here,” said she decisively.

For a moment I was at a loss.  Then the simplest solution in the world occurred to me.

“But you can come out, madame,” I suggested.

She looked at me doubtfully for a minute.  Then she stepped out, shutting the door carefully behind her.  I caught a glimpse of the little nun’s face, and thought there was a look of disappointment on it.  The old lady and I began to walk along the path that led to the burying-ground.

“I do not know,” said I, “whether you have heard of me.  My name is Aycon.”

“I thought so.  Mr. Aycon, I must tell you that you are very much to blame.  You have led this innocent, though thoughtless, child into most deplorable conduct.”

("Well done, little duchess!” said I to myself; but of course I was not going to betray her.)

“I deeply regret my thoughtlessness,” said I earnestly.  “I would, however, observe that the present position of the duchess is not due to my—­shall we say misconduct?—­but to that of her husband.  I did not invite—­”

“Don’t mention her name!” interrupted the Mother Superior in horror.

We had reached the arched gateway; and there appeared standing within it a figure most charmingly inappropriate to a graveyard—­the duchess herself, looking as fresh as a daisy, and as happy as a child with a new toy.  She ran to me, holding out both hands and crying: 

“Ah, my dear, dear Mr. Aycon, you are the most delightful man alive!  You come at the very moment I want you.”

“Be sober, my child, be sober!” murmured the old lady.

“But I want to hear,” expostulated the duchess.  “Do you know anything, Mr. Aycon?  What has been happening up at the house?  What has the duke done?”

As the duchess poured out her questions, we passed through the gate; the ladies sat down on a stone bench just inside, and I, standing, told my story.  The duchess was amused to hear of old Jean’s chase of her; but she showed no astonishment till I told her that Marie Delhasse was at the hotel in Avranches, and had declined to go further on her journey to-day.