'That friend of yours at your side has not been drawn only in battle, has it?'
De Gonnor's white face rose up before me, and I felt my forehead burn. I could make no answer. Madame looked at me for a moment, and then dropped a stately little courtesy. 'Monsieur, you are very good to advise me, and I take your reproof. But surely what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Is not the Chevalier d'Auriac a little hasty? How is it that he is not at home at Auriac, instead of hastening to Paris as fast as he can—to the masques at the Louvre, and the salons of Zamet?'
'It is different,' I stammered.
'Ah, yes, it is different,' with a superb scorn; 'I saw you pull a half league of face as I talked at dinner. Monsieur can go here. Monsieur can go there. He may dance at a revel from curfew till cockcrow, he may stake his estates on a throw of the dice, he may run his friend through for a word spoken in jest—it is all comme il faut. But, Madame—she must sit at home with her distaff, her only relaxation a prêche, her amusement and joy to await Monsieur's return—is not that your idea, Chevalier?' She was laughing, but it was with a red spot on each cheek.
'Madame,' I replied, 'when I was but fifteen I joined the Cardinal de Joyeuse, and from that time to now my life has been passed in the field; I am therefore but a soldier, rough of speech, unused to argument, apt to say what is in my mind bluntly. I was wrong to make the remark I did, and ask your pardon; but, madame, brush away the idea that in this case the sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose—I use your own words—think what it would be if all womankind acted on what you have preached—think what would happen if the illusions that surround you, and which are now your strength, are dispelled. The worst of men have some memory of a home made happy by a woman, sister, mother, or wife, and the return to which was like a glimpse into heaven—the thought of which often made them better men—do not destroy this. And, madame, there is yet another thing—man is a fighting animal, and the final issues of an affair come to the sword—where would a struggle between this hand and mine end?—'in my eagerness I took her small white fingers in mine as I spoke, and shut them within my palm—'Madame,' I continued, 'rest assured that the glory and strength of a woman is in her weakness, and when she puts aside that armour she is lost. Think not that you have no mission—it is at a mother's knee that empires have been lost and won, that generations have, and will be, cursed or blessed.'
I stood over her as I spoke; I was a tall man then and strong, and whether it was my speech or what I know not, but I felt the hand I held tremble in mine, and her eyes were turned from me.
'Let me say good-bye now,' I continued, 'and thank you again for what you have done.'
She shook her head in deprecation.
'Very well, then, I will not recall it to you; but I can never forget—life is sweet of savour, and you gave it back to me. We will meet again in Paris—till then good-bye.'
'At the Louvre?' As she glanced up at me, trying to smile, I saw her eyes were moist with tears, and then—but the wide lands of Bidache were before me, and I held myself in somehow.