She pursed her lips, and looked at me from the corner of her eye.

"Pouf!" she said. "So you are growing frightened also. Yet I can
understand. The Marquis always said that Captain Shelton could frighten
the devil himself."

"Frightened!" I echoed, and the blood rushed into my cheeks.

"Mon Dieu! Perhaps you are not. Listen, Monsieur, I am not taunting you.
I am not saying he will not. He is serious, Monsieur, and you must leave
him alone, or perhaps I shall not get the paper after all, and remember,
I must have it. My brother must have it, and he shall, only you must not
disturb him. He may shoot at the town, if he cares to, or murder your
uncle. He has often spoken of it at Blanzy, but the paper is another
matter. You must leave it to me."

"To you!" I cried.

"Precisely," said Mademoiselle. "You--what can you do? You are young. You
are inexperienced. Pardon me, but you would be quite ineffective."

My cheeks flamed again. Somehow no sarcasm of my father's had bitten as
deep as those last words of hers. I do not know whether it was chagrin or
anger that I felt at the bitter sense of my own futility. And she had
seen it all. As coldly and as accurately as my father, she had watched
me, and as coldly she had given her verdict. She was watching me now with
a cool, confident smile that made me turn away.

"Ah," she said, "I have hurt you, and believe me, I did not mean to."