"Unless—unless—Ah, yes, ma'm'selle, I shall go again to the war," I stammered, going to the brink of confession, only to back away from it, as the blood came hot to my cheeks.
She broke a tiny bough and began stripping its leaves.
"Tell me, do you love the baroness?" she inquired as she whipped a swaying bush of brier.
The question amazed me. I laughed nervously.
"I respect, I admire the good woman—she would make an excellent mother," was my answer.
"Well spoken!" she said, clapping her hands. "I thought you were a fool. I did not know whether you were to blame or—or the Creator."
"Or the baroness," I added, laughing.
"Well," said she, with a pretty shrug, "is there not a man for every woman? The baroness she thinks she is irresistible. She has money. She would like to buy you for a plaything—to marry you. But I say beware. She is more terrible than the keeper of the Bastile. And you—you are too young!"
"My dear girl," said I, in a voice of pleading, "it is terrible.
Save me! Save me, I pray you!"
"Pooh! I do not care!"—with a gesture of indifference, "I am trying to save myself, that is all."