“And the day,” I reminded her, “is the first of September.”

She laughed, and opened her left hand, showing me two squat keys so small that both had lain concealed under two of her finger tips.

“I am going to give you a key, sire.”

“Will it unlock a woman’s mind?”

“It will open a padlocked book.  Last night I found a little blank-leaved book, with wooden covers.  It was fastened by a padlock, and these keys were tied to it.  You may have one key:  I will keep the other.”

“The key to a padlocked book with nothing in it.”

Her eyes tantalized me.

“I am going to put something in it.  Sophie Saint-Michel said I had a gift for putting down my thoughts.  If the gift appeared to Sophie when I was a child, it must grow in me by use.  Every day I shall put some of my life into the book.  And when I die I will bequeath it to you!”

“Take back the key, madame.  I have no desire to look into your coffin.”

She extended her hand.

“Then our good and kind friend Count de Chaumont shall have it.”

“He shall not!”

I held to her hand and kept my key.

She slipped away from me.  The laughter of the child yet rose through the dignity of the woman.

“When may I read this book, Eagle?”

“Never, of my free will, sire.  How could I set down all I thought about you, for instance, if the certainty was hanging over me that you would read my candid opinions and punish me for them!”

“Then of what use is the key?”

“You would rather have it than give it to another, wouldn’t you?”

“Decidedly.”

“Well, you will have the key to my thoughts!”

“And if the book ever falls into my hands—­”

“I will see that it doesn’t!”

“I will say, years from now—­”

“Twenty?”

“Twenty?  O Eagle!”

“Ten.”

“Months?  That’s too long!”

“No, ten years, sire.”

“Not ten years, Eagle.  Say eight.”

“No, nine.”

“Seven.  If the book falls into my hands at the end of seven years, may I open it?”

“I may safely promise you that,” she laughed.  “The book will never fall into your hands.”

I took from my pocket the gold snuffbox with the portraits on the lid, and placed my key carefully therein.  Eagle leaned forward to look at them.  She took the box in her hand, and gazed with long reverence, drooping her head.

Young as I was, and unskilled in the ways of women, that key worked magic comfort.  She had given me a link to hold us together.  The inconsistent, contradictory being, old one instant with the wisdom of the Saint-Michels, rippling full of unrestrained life the next, denying me all hope, yet indefinitely tantalizing, was adorable beyond words.  I closed my eyes:  the blinding sunshine struck them through the ivied arch.