The imperious young beauty drew herself up directly.  “So be it, monsieur; you teach me how a child should be answered that forgets herself, and asks a favor of a stranger—­a perfect stranger,” added she, maliciously.

Could one of the dog-days change to mid-winter in a second, it would hardly seem so cold and cross as Rose de Beaurepaire turned from the smiling, saucy fairy of the moment before.  Edouard felt as it were a portcullis of ice come down between her and him.  She courtesied and glided away.  He bowed and stood frozen to the spot.

He felt so lonely and so bitter, he must go to Jacintha for comfort.

He took advantage of the ladies being with Dard, and marched boldly into the kitchen of Beaurepaire.

“Well, I never,” cried Jacintha.  “But, after all, why not?”

He hurled himself on the kitchen table (clean as china), and told her it was all over.  “She hates me now; but it is not my fault,” and so poured forth his tale, and feeling sure of sympathy, asked Jacintha whether it was not bitterly unjust of Rose to refuse him her own acquaintance, yet ask him to amuse that old fogy.

Jacintha stood with her great arms akimbo, taking it all in, and looking at him with a droll expression of satirical wonder.

“Now you listen to a parable,” said she.  “Once there was a little boy madly in love with raspberry jam.”

“A thing I hate.”

“Don’t tell me!  Who hates raspberry jam?  He came to the store closet, where he knew there were jars of it, and—­oh! misery—­the door was locked.  He kicked the door, and wept bitterly.  His mamma came and said, ‘Here is the key,’ and gave him the key.  And what did he do?  Why, he fell to crying and roaring, and kicking the door.  ’I don’t wa-wa-wa-wa-nt the key-ey-ey.  I wa-a-ant the jam—­oh! oh! oh! oh!’” and Jacintha mimicked, after her fashion, the mingled grief and ire of infancy debarred its jam.  Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it was only for a moment; the next he hid his face in his hands, and cried, “Fool!”

“I shall not contradict you,” said his Mentor.

“She was my best friend.  Once acquainted with the doctor, I could visit at Beaurepaire.”

“Parbleu!”

“She had thought of a way to reconcile my wishes with this terrible etiquette that reigns here.”

“She thinks to more purpose than you do; that is clear.”

“Nothing is left now but to ask her pardon, and to consent; I am off.”

“No, you are not,” and Jacintha laid a grasp of iron on him.  “Will you be quiet?—­is not one blunder a day enough?  If you go near her now, she will affront you, and order the doctor not to speak to you.”

“O Jacintha! your sex then are fiends of malice?”

“While it lasts.  Luckily with us nothing lasts very long.  Now you don’t go near her till you have taken advantage of her hint, and made the doctor’s acquaintance; that is easy done.  He walks two hours on the east road every day, with his feet in the puddles and his head in the clouds.  Them’s his two tastes.”