Come with us."
"They suggested . . . ?" the Chevalier stammered.
"No. But haven't you the right? At least you know madame."
"Madame?"
"Madame, always madame. Here formalities would only be ridiculous.
You will go with us for safety's sake, if for nothing more."
"I will go . . . with that understanding. Ah, lad, if only I knew what
you know!"
"We should still be where we are," evasively. The poet had a plan in
regard to madame and the Chevalier. It twisted his brave heart, yet he
clung to it.
Caprice is an exquisite trait in a woman; a woman who has it--and what
woman has not?--is all the seasons of the year compressed into an
hour--the mildness of spring, the warmth of summer, the glory of
autumn, and the chill of winter. And when madame saw the Chevalier
that afternoon, she put a foot into the canoe, and immediately withdrew
it.
"What is it?" asked Victor.
"Is Monsieur le Chevalier going?"
"Yes." Victor waited. "Why?" he said finally.
"Nothing, nothing." Madame took her place in the canoe.
"It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevalier
goes with us."
"There is danger, then?"
"There will he none," emphatically.
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