“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “do not misunderstand me.  I would die rather than hurt your feelings.  Listen, I pray.  It was to tell you frankly that I came to this country for that purpose,—­in order that I might live as my ancestors have lived, with a hotel in Paris:  But the chateau, grace a dieu, is not mortgaged, nor am I wholly impoverished.  I have soixante quinze mille livres de rente, which is fifteen thousand dollars a year in your money, and which goes much farther in France.  At the proper time, I will present these matters to your guardians.  I have lived, but I have a heart, and I love you madly.  Rather would I dwell with you in Provence, where I will cultivate the soil of my forefathers, than a palace on the Champs Elysees with another.  We can come to Paris for two months, at least.  For you I can throw my prospects out of the window with a light heart.  Honore—­how sweet is your name in my language—­I love you to despair.”

He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, but she drew it gently away.  It seemed to her that he had made the very air quiver with feeling, and she let herself wonder, for a moment, what life with him would be.  Incredible as it seemed, he had proposed to her, a penniless girl!  Her own voice was not quite steady as she answered him, and her eyes were filled with compassion.

“Vicomte,” she said, “I did not know that you cared for me—­that way.  I thought—­I thought you were amusing yourself.”

“Amusing myself!” he exclaimed bitterly.  “And you—­were you amusing yourself?”

“I—­I tried to avoid you,” she replied, in a low voice.

“I am engaged.”

“Engaged!” He sprang to his feet.  “Engaged!  Ah, no, I will not believe it.  You were engaged when you came here?”

She was no little alarmed by the violence which he threw into his words.  At the same time, she was indignant.  And yet a mischievous sprite within her led her on to tell him the truth.

“No, I am going to marry Mr. Howard Spence, although I do not wish it announced.”

For a moment he stood motionless, speechless, staring at her, and then he seemed to sway a little and to choke.

“No, no,” he cried, “it cannot be!  My ears have deceived me.  I am not sane.  You are going to marry him—?  Ah, you have sold yourself.”

“Monsieur de Toqueville,” she said, “you forget yourself.  Mr. Spence is an honourable man, and I love him.”

The Vicomte appeared to choke again.  And then, suddenly, he became himself, although his voice was by no means natural.  His elaborate and ironic bow she remembered for many years.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and adieu.  You will be good enough to convey my congratulations to Mr. Spence.”

With a kind of military “about face” he turned and left her abruptly, and she watched him as he hurried across the lawn until he had disappeared behind the trees near the house.  When she sat down on the bench again, she found that she was trembling a little.  Was the unexpected to occur to her from now on?  Was it true, as the Vicomte had said, that she was destined to be loved amidst the play of drama?