“And why do you hunt bears?” I inquired.

“I do not know.  I think it is because they are so—­so beautiful, so amiable!” she answered.

“And such good companions.”

“Yes; they never embarrass you,” she went on.  “You never feel at loss for a word.”

“I fear you do not know bears.”

“Dieu! better than men.  Voila!” she exclaimed, touching me with the end of her parasol.  “You are not so terrible.  I do not think you would bite.”

“No; I have never bitten anything but—­but bread and doughnuts, or something of that sort.”

“Come, I desire to intimidate you.  Won’t you please be afraid of me?  Indeed, I can be very terrible.  See!  I have sharp teeth.”

She turned with a playful growl, and parting her crimson lips, showed them to me—­white and shapely, and as even as if they had been wrought of ivory.  She knew they were beautiful, the vixen.

“You terrify me.  I have a mind to run,” I said, backing off,

“Please do not run,” she answered quickly.  “I should be afraid that—­that—­”

She hesitated a moment, stirring the moss with one dainty foot.

“That you might not return,” she added, smiling as she looked up at me.

“Then—­then perhaps it will do as well if I climb a tree.”

“No, no; I wish to talk with you.”

“Ma’m’selle, you honor me,” I said.

“And dishonor myself, I presume, with so much boldness,” she went on.  “It is only that I have something to say; and you know when a woman has something to—­to say—­”

“It is a fool that does not listen if she be as fair as you,” I put in.

“You are—­well, I shall not say what I think of you, for fear—­for fear of giving offence,” said she, blushing as she spoke.  “Do you like the life of a soldier?”

“Very much, and especially when I am wounded, with such excellent care and company.”

“But your side—­it was so horribly torn.  I did feel very sorry—­indeed I did.  You will go again to the war?”

“Unless—­unless—­Ah, yes, ma’m’selle, I shall go again to the war,” I stammered, going to the brink of confession, only to back away from it, as the blood came hot to my cheeks.

She broke a tiny bough and began stripping its leaves.

“Tell me, do you love the baroness?” she inquired as she whipped a swaying bush of brier.

The question amazed me.  I laughed nervously.

“I respect, I admire the good woman—­she would make an excellent mother,” was my answer.

“Well spoken!” she said, clapping her hands.  “I thought you were a fool.  I did not know whether you were to blame or—­or the Creator.”

“Or the baroness,” I added, laughing.

“Well,” said she, with a pretty shrug, “is there not a man for every woman?  The baroness she thinks she is irresistible.  She has money.  She would like to buy you for a plaything—­to marry you.  But I say beware.  She is more terrible than the keeper of the Bastile.  And you—­you are too young!”