"Dearest, what is it?" asked Dan.
"Nothing, nothing," she replied, withdrawing a little from his touch. "I was unwell for the moment,—ce ne fait rien. No, no, you are not to kiss me, please." Again she unloosed his arm from about her neck, slipped the paper into her muff, and pressed a little forward. For a space they walked slowly, silently, toward the Inn.
"But, dearest one," murmured Dan, "this proves to you my love, doesn't it? You no longer doubt me. For your sake, I give my honour; it may be, the safety of my friends. You must see how I love you with all my heart and soul. Won't you,—"
Suddenly she stopped again quite still and faced him. "My poor boy," she said gently, "you really love me?"
"Love you! My God, have I not proved it! What more would you have me do?"
"Mais oui," she answered quickly. "You have proved it, but I have thought that it was not possible."
"And you—you do care—oh, tell me—"
"Hélas, mon paurve ami. I love as tenderly as it remains in me to love. Ah, dear, dear boy, so sincerely, that I cannot have you to sell your honour for the futile kisses of Claire de la Fontaine."
"What do you mean? Have I—"
"No, no, no! This—take the paper. You must not again give it me, I desire that you will not." She drew the paper from her muff with an impulsive movement and thrust it toward him. "Take it, I implore you."