XII


Was it possible that I cared? There she was leaning toward him, the
flames from the fire dancing softly before her face, giving her dark hair
a hundred new lights and shadows. Her lips were parted, and in her eyes
was silent entreaty. I felt a sudden unaccountable impulse to snatch up
the volume of Rabelais, to face my father again, weapon or no weapon, to
show her--

"Come, captain," said Mademoiselle gently. "Must you continue this after
it has turned into a farce? Must you continue acting from pique, when the
thing has been over for more years than you care to remember? Must you
keep on now because of a whim to make your life miserable and the lives
of others? Will you threaten fifty men with death and ruin, because you
once were called a thief? It is folly, sir, and you know it, utter
useless folly! Pray do not stare at me. It was easy enough to piece your
story together. I guessed it long ago. I have listened too often to you
and the Marquis at wine. Come, captain, give me back the paper."

With his old half smile, my father turned to her and nodded in pleasant
acknowledgment.

"Mademoiselle," he observed evenly, "I have gone further through the
world than most men, though to less purpose, and I have met many people,
but none of them with an intuition like yours."

He paused long enough to refill his glass.