"And 'tis you I wish to see," I responded boldly. "I have been looking for you for many days; why have you deserted the Champs-Élysées?"
She looked up at me quickly, as if pleased with the audacity of the first part of my speech, but as I finished with my question she dropped her eyes and seemed embarrassed. In a moment she spoke in a low, constrained voice, and in English:
"My aunt and I have had misunderstandings. She wishes me to appear in public with a man I do not like. In Paris that means fiancé. I will stay in my hôtel with headaches rather than ride on the avenue beside him!" with sudden fire. Then she added with an attempt at her old lightness:
"But I must drive on. Should it be reported to madame that I stopped to talk to Monsieur, I might have to suffer for it."
A sudden horror seized me.
"Mademoiselle, they do not use force?" I cried. "You are not held a prisoner?"
"No—not yet," she said slowly.
"Mademoiselle," I said, looking steadily into her eyes, "I have tried to see you to say good-by; I leave Paris to-morrow."
I saw her go suddenly white, but in a moment she spoke very calmly, and in French:
"Do you go back to America, Monsieur?"