All this while the Chevalier watched her.  Several times he put forward a foot, only to draw it back.  This, however, could not go on indefinitely, so, summoning all his courage, he took a firm step, another, and another, and there was now no retreating save ignominiously.  For at the sound of his foot on the gravel, madame discovered him.  By the time he stood before her, however, all was well with him; his courage and wit and daring had returned to do him honor.  This morning he was what he had been a year ago, a gay and rollicking courtier.

“Madame, what a glorious day it is!” The heron feather almost touched the path, so elaborate was the courtesy.  “Does the day not carry you back to France?”

Something in his handsome eyes, something in the debonair smile, something in his whole demeanor, left her without voice.  She simply stared at him, wide-eyed.  He sat down beside her, thereby increasing her confusion.

“I have left Monsieur de Saumaise writing chansons; and here’s an oriole somewhere, singing his love songs.  What is it that comes with summer which makes all male life carry nosegays to my lady’s easement?  Faith, it must be in the air.  Here’s Monsieur Oriole in love; it matters not if last year’s love is not this year’s.  All he knows is that it is love.  Somewhere in yonder forests the eagle seeks its mate, the mountain lion its lioness, the red deer its hind.”

Madame sat very still and erect.  Her forces were scattered, and she could not summon them to her aid till this man’s purpose was made distinct.

“In all the hundred days of summer will there be a more perfect day for love than this?  Madame, you said that I had lost a valuable art; what was it?”

Madame began vaguely to believe that he had not lost it.  This man was altogether new to her.  Behind all this light converse she recognized a power.  She trembled.

“You need not tell me, Diane; I know what it is.  It is the art of making love.  I had not lost it; I had thought that here it was simply a useless art.  When first I saw you I loved you as a boy loves.  I ran hither and thither at your slightest bidding; I was the veriest slave, and I was happy in my serfdom.  You could have asked me any task, and I should have accomplished it.  You were in my thoughts day and night; not only because I loved you, but because you had cast a veil about you.  And of all enchanting mysteries the most holding to man is the woman in the mask.  You still wear a mask, Madame, only I have lifted a corner of it.  And now I love you with the full love of a man, a love that has been analyzed and proved.”

“I will go to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont, who is within the convent.”  Madame rose quietly, her eyes averted.  She would gladly have flown, but that would have been undignified, the acknowledgment of defeat.  And just now she knew that she could not match this mood of his.