"Mon Dieu! Perhaps you are not. Listen, Monsieur, I am not taunting you. I am not saying he will not. He is serious, Monsieur, and you must leave him alone, or perhaps I shall not get the paper after all, and remember, I must have it. My brother must have it, and he shall, only you must not disturb him. He may shoot at the town, if he cares to, or murder your uncle. He has often spoken of it at Blanzy, but the paper is another matter. You must leave it to me."
"To you!" I cried.
"Precisely," said Mademoiselle. "You—what can you do? You are young. You are inexperienced. Pardon me, but you would be quite ineffective."
My cheeks flamed again. Somehow no sarcasm of my father's had bitten as deep as those last words of hers. I do not know whether it was chagrin or anger that I felt at the bitter sense of my own futility. And she had seen it all. As coldly and as accurately as my father, she had watched me, and as coldly she had given her verdict. She was watching me now with a cool, confident smile that made me turn away.
"Ah," she said, "I have hurt you, and believe me, I did not mean to."
Something in the polite impersonality of her voice gave me a vague resentment. She had moved nearer, and yet I could not meet her glance.
"I am sorry" she said, and paused expectantly, but I could only stare at the floor in silence.
"Believe me, I am sorry."
It might have been different if I had detected the slightest contrition, but instead I seemed only to afford her mild amusement.
"There is no need to be sorry," I replied.