She laid her pen down and leaned back with her hands clasped behind her head.

Suddenly the half smile faded from her lips, and a pained expression flashed across her face.  She sat up and finished the letter quietly.  As she rose to seal it she said to herself:  “No; he is too good.  A grande passion would kill him.”

For a week she gave herself up to Raoul’s guidance.  At the end of that time she knew Rocheville almost as if she had lived her life there.

V.

A month passed.  Mademoiselle Elise still retained her guide.  Every afternoon they wandered together somewhere or other; either through the town, or by the sea, or in the woods.  At a loss for any logical explanation of the strange friendship, people assumed that the two were old acquaintances.  Mademoiselle never contradicted this assumption.

“He is my chevalier,” she explained.

During the first few days, she commanded him with a playful authority, and talked a great deal of nonsense, much as she would have talked with any acquaintance for whom she felt but a passing interest.  But it was impossible to continue in this strain with Raoul.  He treated her as a reasoning being, and not as a creature fit merely to be humoured and flattered.  Despite herself she began to speak from her heart and without any constraint.  But she adhered honourably to her decision not to inspire him with a grande passion, and to this end she conducted herself with a simple propriety which recalled to her mind the convent discipline of the gentle Ursuline Sisters, who had taught her her first lessons.

Each day her respect for Raoul increased, as closer acquaintance revealed his character.  Finally, her respect became reverence.  His nature stood out in such strong contrast with the even, easy-going, selfish natures of the others with whom she came into contact.  He was unlike them.  He thought about life, they merely lived it.  He seemed to her to be superior to the common pains and pleasures of the world.  She could not imagine him being swayed by circumstances, by petty likes and dislikes.  She felt that it would be easy to bear any trouble with such a friend near.  His strong will attracted her.  His impenetrable reserve and the strange, stern mood that came over him at times mystified and almost frightened her.

One day, on the Boulevard, they met the troops marching with quick step into the town.  She thought that he tried, involuntarily, to straighten his shoulders as the stalwart figures passed.  She seemed to know how the sight of them must sadden him, and her heart became filled with an inexpressible pity.  But when he spoke, there was not the least tinge of dissatisfaction in his voice.

“I admire their happy nonchalance,” he said.  “Unconsciously they are very good philosophers.  They take life as it comes to them and gauge it at its true value.”