D’Herouville’s eyes were full of venom.  “It wants only the poet to challenge me, and the circle will be complete.  I will fight the poet and the vicomte; they come from no doubtful source.  As for you, I will do you the honor to hire a trooper to take my place.  Fight you?  You make me laugh against my will!  And as for threats, listen to me.  Strike me, and by the gods!  Madame shall learn who you are, or, rather, who you pretend to be.”  The count whistled a bar of music, swung about cavalierly, and retraced his steps toward the lower town.

The Chevalier stared at his retreating figure till it sank below the level of the ridge.  He was without redress; he was impotent; D’Herouville would do as he said.  God!  He struck his hands together in his despair, forgetful that madame saw his slightest movement.  When he recollected her, he moved toward her.  Madame.  D’Herouville had called her madame.

On seeing him approach her first desire was to move in the same direction; that is to say, to keep the distance at its present measure.  A thousand questions flitted through her brain.  She had heard a sentence which so mystified her that the impulse to flee went as suddenly as it came.  She succeeded in composing her features by the time he arrived at her side.

“Madame,” he said, quietly, “whither were you bound?”

She looked at him blankly.  For the life of her she could not tell at that moment what had been her destination!  The situation struck her as so absurd that she could barely stifle the hysterical laughter which rushed to her lips.

“I . . .  I will return to the chateau,” she finally replied.

“The count was annoying you?” walking beside her.

“Thanks to you, Monsieur, the annoyance is past.”

Some ground was gone over in silence.  This silence disturbed her far more than the sound of his voice.  It gave him a certain mastery.  So she spoke.

“You said ’Madame’,” tentatively.

“Such was the title D’Herouville applied.”  And again he became silent.

“Did he tell you my name?” with a sudden and unexpected fierceness.

“No, Madame; he did not speak your name.  But he knows it; while I, who love you honorably and more than my life, I must remain in ignorance.  An expedition is to start soon, Madame, and as I shall join it, my presence here will no longer afford you annoyance.”

“Wherefore this rage, Madame, shining in your beautiful eyes, thinning your lips, widening your nostrils?”

Madame was in a rage; but not even the promise of salvation would have forced the cause from her lips.  O for Paris, where, lightly and wittily, she could humble this man!  Here wit was stale on the tongue, and every one went about with a serious purpose.  She went on, her chin tilted, her gaze lofty.  The wind tossed her hair, there were phantom roses on her cheeks which bloomed and withered and bloomed yet again.  Diane, indeed:  Diane of the green Aegean sea and the marbles of Athens!