"
Her eyes were steady.
"In my father's orchards there used to be a peach-tree. It had the
whimsical habit of bearing one large peach each season. When it
ripened I used to stand under it and gloat over it for hours, to fill
my senses with its perfect beauty. At length I plucked it. I never
regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. . . . You
are like that peach, Madame. By the Cross, over which these Jesuits
mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!"
"Had you a mother, Monsieur?"
This unexpected question made him widen his eyes. "Truly, else I had
not been here."
"Did she die in peace?"
He frowned. "It matters not how she died." He sat on the edge of the
table and swung one leg to and fro. "Some men would give their chance
of heaven for a taste of those lips."
"Your chance of heaven, Monsieur, is remote." The setting sun came in
through the door and filled her eyes with a golden haze. If there was
any fear, the pride on her face hid it.
"Ye gods, but you are a beauty! I can wait no longer for that kiss."
His leg slid from the table. He walked toward her, and she shrank back
till she met with the wall.
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