The count frowned.

“No—­no!  That’s impossible.”

“Will the officer sell his rights if Madame de Ferrier’s are not acknowledged?”

“I have thought of that.  And I want to consult the marquis.”

When he had a chance to draw the marquis aside, I could speak to Madame de Ferrier without being overheard; though my time might be short.  She stood between the curtains, and the man in uniform had left his place to me.

“Well, I am here,” I said.

“And I am glad,” she answered.

“I am here because I love you.”

She held a fold of the curtain in her hand and looked down at it; then up at me.

“You must not say that again.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I do not.”

“Remember who you are.”

“I am your lover.”

She looked quickly around the buzzing drawing-room, and leaned cautiously nearer.

“You are my sovereign.”

“I believe that, Eagle.  But it does not follow that I shall ever reign.”

“Are you safe here?  Napoleon Bonaparte has spies.”

“But he has regard also for old aristocrats like the Marquis du Plessy.”

“Yet remember what he did to the Duke d’Enghien.  A Bourbon prince is not allowed in France.”

“How many people consider me a Bourbon prince?  I told you why I am here.  Fortune has wonderfully helped me since I came to France.  Lazarre, the dauphin from the Indian camps, brazenly asks you to marry him, Eagle!”

Her face blanched white, but she laughed.

“No De Ferrier ever took a base advantage of royal favor.  Don’t you think this is a strange conversation in a drawing-room of the Empire?  I hated myself for being here—­until you came in.”

“Eagle, have you forgotten our supper on the island?”

“Yes, sire.”  She scarcely breathed the word.

“My unanointed title is Lazarre.  And I suppose you have forgotten the fog and the mountain, too?”

“Yes.”

“Lazarre!”

“Yes, Lazarre.”

“You love me!  You shall love me!”

“As a De Ferrier should; no farther!”

Her lifted chin expressed a strength I could not combat.  The slight, dark-haired girl, younger than myself, mastered and drew me as if my spirit was a stream, and she the ocean into which it must flow.  Darkness like that of Ste. Pelagie dropped over the brilliant room.  I was nothing after all but a palpitating boy, venturing because he must venture.  Light seemed to strike through her blood, however, endowing her with a splendid pallor.

“I am going,” I determined that moment, “to Mittau.”

The adorable curve of her eyelids, unlike any other eyelids I ever saw, was lost to me, for her eyes flew wide open.

“To ——­”

She looked around and hesitated to pronounce the name of the Count of Provence.