Their eyes met.  The game had grown very perilous.  “Men may remember the princess,” she replied, “but forget the woman.”

“If it weren’t for the woman inside the princess; what reason should I have for remembering?” he asked.

She fenced.  “But, as it is, you don’t see me very often.”

“I know.  But you are here—­to be seen—­not when I want you, for that would be every hour of the day—­but, at least, in times of emergency.  You are here, all the same, in the atmosphere of my life.”

“And if I go abroad I shall no longer be in that atmosphere?  Did I not say you would forget?”

She laughed.  Then quickly started forward, and, elbow on knee and chin on palm, regarded him brightly.  “We are talking like a couple of people out of Mademoiselle de Scudery,” she said before he had time to reply.  “And we are in the twentieth century, mon pauvre ami.  We must be sensible.  I know that you will miss me.  And I will miss you too.  Mais que voulez-vous?  We have to obey the laws of the world we live in.”

“Need we?” asked Paul daringly.  “Why need we?”

“We must.  I must go away to my own country.  You must stay in yours and work and fulfill your ambitions.”  She paused.  “I want you to be a great man,” she said, with a strange tenderness in her voice.

“With you by my side,” said he, “I feel I could conquer the earth.”

“As your good friend I shall always be by your side.  Vous voyez, mon cher Paul,” she went on quickly in French.  “I am not quite as people see me.  I am a woman who is lonely and not too happy, who has had disillusions which have embittered her life.  You know my history.  It is public property.  But I am young.  And my heart is healed—­and it craves faith and tenderness and—­and friendship.  I have many to flatter me.  I am not too ugly.  Many men pay their court to me, but they do not touch my heart.  None of them even interest me.  I don’t know why.  And then I have my rank, which imposes on me its obligations.  Sometimes I wish I were a little woman of nothing at all, so that I could do as I like.  Mais enfin, I do what I can.  You have come, Paul Savelli, with your youth and your faith and your genius, and you pay your court to me like the others.  Yes, it is true—­and as long as it was amusing, I let it go on.  But now that you interest me, it is different.  I want your success.  I want it with all my heart.  It is a little something in my life—­I confess it—­quelque chose de tres joli—­and I will not spoil it.  So let us be good friends, frank and loyal—­without any Scudery.”  She looked at him with eyes that had lost their languor—­a sweet woman’s eyes, a little moist, very true.  “And now,” she said, “will you be so kind as to put a log on the fire.”

Paul rose and threw a log on the glowing embers, and stood by her side.  He was deeply moved.  Never before had she so spoken.  Never before had she afforded a glimpse of the real woman.  Her phrases, so natural, so sincere, in her own tongue, and so caressive, stirred the best in him.  The glamour passed from the royal lady; only the sweet and beautiful woman remained.