Part 19 (1/2)

”My King,” replied Blaise with dignity, ”had the goodness to make a somewhat similar remark when he took Cahors!”

”Cahors?” repeated the lady in a tone of perplexity. ”But the King never took Cahors!”

”The King of France,--no!” cried Blaise; ”but the King of Navarre did!”

”Blaise!” I cried, in angry reproof at his imprudence.

The tone in which I spoke had so startled the lady that she dropped her mask, and I saw the sweetest face that ever gladdened the eyes of a man.

It was the face of a girl naturally of a cheerful nature, but newly made acquainted with sorrow. Grief had not rendered the nature, or the face, unresponsive to transient impressions of a pleasant or mirthful kind.

Hers was one of those hearts in which grief does not exclude all possibility of gaiety. Sorrow might lie at the bottom, never forgotten and never entirely concealed, but merriment might ripple on the surface.

As for its outlines, the face, in every part, harmonized with the grace and purity of the chin and mouth. Her eyes were blue and large, with an eloquence displayed without intent or consciousness.

”What does it mean?” she said, in a charming bewilderment. ”The servant reproves the master. Ah! I see! The servant _is_ the master.”

And she smiled with pleasure at her discovery.

”But still _your_ servant, mademoiselle,” was all that I could say.

Blaise vented a great breath of relief. ”I feel better now,” he said, heartily, and he turned with a beaming countenance to the maid, who looked at his stalwart form and promptly revised her opinion of him. The two were soon in conversation together, at the fireplace, and I was left to complete explanations with the lady, who did not attempt the coquetry of replacing her mask.

”Our secret is yours, mademoiselle, and our safety is in your hands.”

”Your secret is safe, monsieur,” she said, modestly averting her eyes from my frankly admiring look. ”And now I understand why it was you who drew sword.”

”A privilege too precious to be resigned,” I answered in a low tone, ”even for the sake of my secret and my safety.”

My words were spoken so tenderly that she sought relief from her charming embarra.s.sment by taking up my sword from the table, and saying, with a smile:

”I have you in my power, monsieur, follower of the King of Navarre! What if I were minded, on behalf of the governor of this province, to make you a prisoner?”

”My faith!” I could only reply, ”you need no sword to make prisoners of men.”

”You hope to purchase your freedom with a compliment,” she said, continuing the jest; ”but you cannot close my eyes with flattery.”

”It would be a crime beyond me to close eyes so beautiful!”

She gave a pretty little smile and shrug of helplessness, as if to say, ”I cannot help it, monsieur, if you will overwhelm me with compliments which are not deserved, I am powerless to prevent you.”

But the compliments were all the more deserved because she seemed to think them not so.

Her modesty weakened my own audacity, and her innocent eyes put me into a kind of confusion. So I changed the subject.

”It appears to me, mademoiselle,” I said, ”that I have had the honor of ridding you of unpleasant company.”

Her face quickly clouded, as if my words had brought to her mind a greater trouble than the mere importunities of an insolent adventurer.

”De Berquin!” she said, and then heaved a deep sigh; ”I had forgotten about him.”

”I would not commit his offence of thrusting unwelcome company on you,” I replied; ”but I would gladly offer you for a few leagues the sword that has already put him to flight.”