We reached the extremity of the avenue without having exchanged a single word.  I felt deeply, as you may believe, how much this silence, on my part at least, was awkward, stiff, and ridiculous; but, as it often happens in circumstances which demand most imperatively the resources of eloquence, I was stricken with an invincible sterility of mind.  I tried in vain to find some plausible subject of conversation, and the more annoyed I felt at finding none, the less capable I became of doing so.

“Suppose we have a run?” said Madame de Palme suddenly.

“Let us have a run!” I said; and we started at a gallop, to my infinite relief.

Nevertheless, it became absolutely necessary to check our speed at the entrance of the tortuous path that leads down into the valley of the ruins.  The care required to guide our horses during that difficult descent served for a few minutes longer as a pretext for my silence; but, on reaching the level ground of the valley, I saw that I must speak at any cost, and I was about to begin with some commonplace remark, when Madame de Palme was kind enough to anticipate me: 

“They say, sir, that you are very witty?”

“You may judge for yourself, madam,” I replied laughingly.

“Rather difficult so far, even if I were able, which you are very far from conceding.  Oh! you need not deny it!  Its perfectly useless, after the conversation which chance made me overhear the other night.”

“I have made so many mistakes concerning you, madam, you must realize the pitiful confusion I feel toward you.”

“And in what respect have you been mistaken?”

“In all respects, I believe.”

“You are not quite sure?  Admit at least that I am a good-natured woman.”

“Oh! with all my heart, madam!”

“You said that well.  I believe you think it.  You are not bad either, I believe, and yet you have been cruelly so to me.”

“That is true.”

“What sort of man are you, then, pray?” resumed the Little Countess in her brief and abrupt tone; “I cannot understand it very well.  By what right, on what ground, do you despise me?  Suppose I am really guilty of all the intrigues which are attributed to me; what is that to you?  Are you a saint yourself? a reformer?  Have you never gone astray?  Are you any more virtuous than other men of your age and condition?  What right have you to despise me?  Explain!”

“Were I guilty of the sentiments which you attribute to me, madam, I should answer, that never has any one, either in your sex or mine, taken his own morality as the rule of his opinion and his judgment upon others; we live as we can, and we judge as we should; it is more particularly a very frequent inconsistency among men, to frown down unmercifully the very weaknesses which they encourage and of which they derive the benefit.  For my part, I hold severely aloof from a degree of austerity as ridiculous in a man as uncharitable in