“You are right, Charles, I am a fool — a wicked fool!  I have just enough sense left to perceive it.  It is the way I have lived, I suppose.  I have never known the need to deny myself anything I wanted.”  Then suddenly he swung round, and the outburst came.  “But, my God, I want Aline as I have never wanted anything yet!  I think I should kill myself in rage if through my folly I should have lost her.”  He struck his brow with his hand.  “I am a beast!” he said.  “I should have known that if that sweet saint got word of these petty devilries of mine she would despise me; and I tell you, Charles, I’d go through fire to regain her respect.”

“I hope it is to be regained on easier terms,” said Charles; and then to ease the situation which began to irk him by its solemnity, he made a feeble joke.  “It is merely asked of you that you refrain from going through certain fires that are not accounted by mademoiselle of too purifying a nature.”

“As to that Binet girl, it is finished — finished,” said the Marquis.

“I congratulate you.  When did you make that decision?”

“This moment.  I would to God I had made it twenty-four hours ago.  As it is-” he shrugged — “why, twenty-four hours of her have been enough for me as they would have been for any man — a mercenary, self-seeking little baggage with the soul of a trull.  Bah!” He shuddered in disgust of himself and her.

“Ah!  That makes it easier for you,” said M. de Sautron, cynically.

“Don’t say it, Charles.  It is not so.  Had you been less of a fool, you would have warned me sooner.”

“I may prove to have warned you soon enough if you’ll profit by the warning.”

“There is no penance I will not do.  I will prostrate myself at her feet.  I will abase myself before her.  I will make confession in the proper spirit of contrition, and Heaven helping me, I’ll keep to my purpose of amendment for her sweet sake.”  He was tragically in earnest.

To M. de Sautron, who had never seen him other than self-contained, supercilious, and mocking, this was an amazing revelation.  He shrank from it almost; it gave him the feeling of prying, of peeping through a keyhole.  He slapped his friend’s shoulder.

“My dear Gervais, here is a magnificently romantic mood.  Enough said.  Keep to it, and I promise you that all will presently be well.  I will be your ambassador, and you shall have no cause to complain.”

“But may I not go to her myself?”

“If you are wise you will at once efface yourself.  Write to her if you will — make your act of contrition by letter.  I will explain why you have gone without seeing her.  I will tell her that you did so upon my advice, and I will do it tactfully.  I am a good diplomat, Gervais.  Trust me.”

M. le Marquis raised his head, and showed a face that pain was searing.  He held out his hand.  “Very well, Charles.  Serve me in this, and count me your friend in all things.”