“Madame, you have studiously avoided me.”  The vicomte twirled his hat.

“And with excellent reason, you will agree.”

“You have been here six days, and you have not given me the barest chance of speaking to you.”  There was a suspicion of drollery in his reproachful tones.

“Monsieur,” replied madame, who, finding herself finally trapped with no avenue of escape, quickly adapted herself to the situation, the battle of evasion, “our last meeting has not fully escaped my recollection.”

“All is fair in love and war.  It came near being a good trick,—­that blank paper.”

“Not quite so near as might be.  It is true that I did not suspect your ruse; but it is also true that I had but one idea and one intention, to gain the paper.”

“And supposing it had been real, genuine?”

“Why, then, I should have at least half of it, which would be the same thing as having all of it.”  Contact with this man always put a delicate edge to her wit and sense of defense.  She could not deny a particle of admiration for this strange man, who proceeded toward his ends with the most intricate subterfuge, and who never drew a long face, who accepted rebuffs with smiles and banter.

“You know, Madame, that whatever I have done or shall do is out of love for you.”

“I would you were out of love with me!”

“The quality of my love . . .”

“Ah, that is what disturbs me—­the quality!” shrewdly.

“There is quality and quantity without end.  I am not a lover who pines and goes without his meals.  Madame, observe me—­I kneel.  I tell you that I adore you.  Will you be my wife?”

“No, a thousand times no!  I know you to be a brave man, Monsieur le Vicomte; but who can put a finger on your fancy?  To-day it is I; to-morrow, elsewhere.  You would soon tire of me who could bring you no dowry save lost illusions and confiscated property.  Doubtless you have not heard that his Eminence the cardinal has posted seals upon all that which fell to me through Monsieur de Brissac.”

“What penetration!” thought the vicomte, rising and dusting his knees.

“And yet, Monsieur,” impulsively, “I would not have you for an enemy.”

“One would think that you are afraid of me.”

“I am,” simply.

“Why?”

“You are determined that I shall love you, and I am equally determined that I shall not.”

“Ah! a matter of the stronger mind and will.”

“My will shall never bend toward yours, Monsieur.  What I fear is your persecution.  Let us put aside love, which is impossible, and turn our attention to something nearer and quite possible—­friendship.”  She extended her hand, frankly, without reservation.  If only she could in some manner disarm this man!

“What!” mockingly, “you forgive my attempt at Quebec to coerce you?”

“Frankly, since you did not succeed, Monsieur, I have seen too much of men not to appreciate a brilliant stroke.  Had I not torn that paper from your hand, you might have scored at least half a trick.  There is a high place somewhere in this world for a man of your wit and courage.”