"Oh, I was referring to the Bois des Fauvettes," said Mme de Morsan lazily.
"You mean his capture? Naturally he felt that, at such a time." Avoye got up, went quickly to her work-table, and opened a drawer. "What do you think of this new kind of embroidery, Eulalie? I have been wanting your opinion on it."
Mme de Morsan took the specimen brought to her, but she did not look at it. She looked up at the girl instead. "Something happened to him before his capture, did it not? . . . I see that you do not want to discuss it. Neither do I. But I must admit that I find it very interesting, the profound resemblance that there is at bottom between all men, however exceptional they seem to be. It is really something of a relief to know that our dear Aymar is human, after all—as human as any other man."
"I have no idea what you mean," returned Avoye frigidly, intensely disliking words and tone and smile.
The smile grew. "No? And yet it is wonderful to think that to-day, just as in the Middle Ages . . . You remember the legend of the original Oiseleur, and how he lost the jartier through a woman?"
"Yes."
"Well, history is only a series of repetitions. Forgive the truism!"
"As I say, I do not know what you are talking about," repeated Avoye, but more warmly this time.
"Has not Aymar lost the jartier? Well, if he did not exactly present that to a lady, he presented her with something more valuable—his good name."
Avoye lifted her proud little head. "Are you trying to inform me, Eulalie, that report has introduced a woman into this story?"