"I am afraid," said Mademoiselle, "that you have had quite an
opposite effect."

In spite of myself I started. Could it be that I was jealous? Her eyes
were lowered to the arm of her chair, and she was intent on the delicate
carving of the mahogany. It was true then. I might have suspected it
before, but was it possible that I cared?

"Good God!" exclaimed my father, and pushed back his chair.

Mademoiselle rested her chin on the palm of her hand.

"I told you the interview would not be pleasant," she said. "But you are
pessimistic, captain. I have not said I loved you. Do not be alarmed. I
was going to say I pitied you. That was all."

"Mon Dieu," my father murmured. "It is worse." And yet I thought I
detected a note of relief in his voice. "Surely I am not as old as that."

Mademoiselle, whose eyes had never left his face, smiled and shook her
head.

"I know what you are thinking," she said. "No, no, captain. It is not the
beginning of a melodramatic speech. I am not offering pity to the villain
in the story. Even the first night I met you, I was sorry for you,
captain. I was sorry as soon as I saw your eyes. I knew then that
something had happened, and when I heard you speak, I told myself you
were not to blame for it. I still believe you were not to blame. You see,
I know your story now."