as he had never dared assume. What a night that had been! She had
come, masked; she had dined; at his protestations of love she had
laughed, as one laughs who hears a droll story; and in the attempt to
put his arm around her waist, the cold light flashing from her
half-hidden eyes had stilled and abashed him. Why did she hold him,
yet repel? What was her object? Was she some princess who had been
hidden away during her girlhood, to appear only when the bud opened
into womanhood, rich, glorious, and warm? Like a sunbeam, like a
shadow, she flitted through the corridors and galleries of the Louvre
and the Palais Royal, and whenever he had sought to point her out to
some one, to discover her name, lo, she was gone! Tormenting mystery!
Ah, that soft lisp of hers, those enchanting caprices, those amazing
extravagances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of white
chambertin! He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as a
boy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays. And for all
these meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what had
been his reward? To kiss her hand when she came, to kiss her hand when
she went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy and
her eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert. True, he had
often kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what was
that? Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?
Love. Man never uses force where he loves. When would the day come
when the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled? "Love you,
Monsieur?" she had said. "Ah, well, in a way!"

The Chevalier smiled. Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and in
love. He recalled their first meeting. He had been placed on guard at
the entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarin
was giving a mask. Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of a
grey musketeer approached.