“To love you, then, is insolence?”

“Yes; the method which you use is insolent.”

“Is there any way to prove that I love you?” admirably hiding his despair.

“What!  Monsieur, you go a-courting without buckles on your shoes?”

“Diane, let us play at cross-purposes no longer.  You may laugh, thrust, scorn, trample, it will in no wise effect the constancy of my love.  I do not ask you to set tasks for me.  Now, hark to me:  where you go henceforth, there shall I go also, to France, to Spain, to the ends of the world.  You will never be so far away from the sound of my voice that you can not hear me say that I love you.”

“That is persecution!”

“It is love.  I shall master you some day,” recovering his hat and standing, “be that day near or far.  I am a man, a man of heart and courage.  You need no proof of that.  I have bent my knee to you for the last time but once.  I shall no more entreat,” holding his head high.

“Truly, Monsieur!” her wrath running over.

“Wait!  You have forced me, for some purpose unknown, to love you.  Well, I will force you to love me, though God alone knows how.”

“You do well to add that clause,” hotly.  “Your imagination is too large.  Force me to love you?” She laughed shrilly.

But his eye was steady, even though his broad chest swelled.

“You have asked me who I am,” she cried.  “Then, listen:  I am . . . .”

His face was without eagerness.  It was firm.

“I am . . .” she began again.

“The woman I love, the woman who shall some day be my wife.”

“Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?” blazing.

“I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I had the courage to release you.”

Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason that the right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers.  Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gathering coolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth.  Her handkerchief, which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk.  He picked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.

“That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me.”

“I will give it back some day,” he replied, thrusting the bit of cambric into his blouse.

“Now, Monsieur; at once!” she commanded.

“There was a time when I obeyed you in all things.  This handkerchief will do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion to write.  Do you remember that line, ’I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times?’ That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on my word of honor, had I it now . . .”

“Monsieur du Cevennes,” she said, “I will this day write an answer to your annoying proposal.  I trust that you will be gentleman enough to accept it as final.  I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and my words do justice neither to you nor to me.  Yes, I had a purpose, a woman’s purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it.”