"This Arcadian love-making," I cried, reddening with vexation, "this whispering of paradise, this thistle-down entanglement. Don't you think it is time to say good-bye?"

"Quite," she answered, with supreme contempt. "Good-bye," and she returned to the window.

Then something--who can follow the subtle changes that occur in a woman's heart?--something came into mine, and instead of anger I felt a pang of pity for the girl who so disdained me. I walked towards her, and laid my hand upon her arm.

"You know it must be so," I said.

"Yes, it must be so."

"He is of one world and you of another."

"You know that?" she said, in surprise.

"Yes, I know who you are, and who he is. Your words in the wood an hour since were romance, and romance is out of date. It is impossible. Your paths lie asunder: you must take yours, and leave him his."

I had placed my arm around her shoulder, and somehow the contempt I felt for this play-actress had vanished, and my eyes were misty as she turned hers towards me. Then in a second she was crying softly in my arms.

"You will say good-bye," I whispered.

"Yes," she answered, her face still hidden, "I will say good-bye."

"To-day?"

"Yes, to-day--within an hour he will return, and then, with courage taken into both my hands, I will say good-bye. I have been sadly foolish, and now I will break his heart because I wasted wisdom until too late."

I did not tell her that men's hearts, and the hearts of princes in particular, do not break so easily. Neither did I say that the heart that fluttered against my own was nearer breaking than his would ever be, but I kissed her again, and so we waited until we heard his Highness's whistle, as he approached the gate, and, gaining no response, walked up to the door and knocked.

"Come in," I cried, for her permission was so choked that it could not reach him, and he entered and stood gazing in annoyed bewilderment.

"You, madame?"

"I, monsieur."

"What does this mean?"

She walked across and took his hand, holding it tightly between both her own.

"Only this, dear," she whispered, "we have had our dream, and now the awakening comes. It was all my fault, and you must leave me, and forget we ever met--but, no, do not forget; remember me as the wickedest woman whom you have ever known. The one who falsely won your love, and then spurned it, and left you with only a bitter knowledge of the evil of the world."

"You mean that you have fooled me, and do not love me?" he said, stonily.

"Yes, I have fooled you," she answered, and she seemed to shrink beneath the lie that her love told her would teach him the sooner to forget.

"And you do not love me?" he repeated, his face growing gray in the glowing sunlight.

"I do not love you," she answered, and the boy believed her.

"Good-bye," he said; "shall I murmur my grat.i.tude for the few hours of happiness in my fool's paradise?"

Then, while the sneers still hovered around his lips, while I counted all was ended, she flung her arms around him, and drew his head down, until his cheek touched hers.

"Not so, my own," she sobbed, "not so; we must part, but not like this.

I cannot live if you should think me so worthless. We must part; you must go one way and I the other, but I love you, dear, I love you."

"Mademoiselle," I cried, sharply, "this is mere childishness, this is the weakest folly;" and she, with her eyes glistening, turned again from him, and answered, wearily:

"Yes, 'tis folly, 'tis madness--good-bye."

"No," he cried, wildly, "you shall not go!"

"She must--she shall," I answered, angrily.

"Are you bereft of reason that you would so disgrace yourself--your State?"

"It is no disgrace to marry the n.o.blest woman this world has seen," he retorted, hotly, and I admired him for the blaze of pa.s.sion in his eyes.

"You speak like a child," I cried. "She says good-bye because she knows that you must part. Prince Ferdinand of Elvirna cannot wed a n.o.body."

"Prince Ferdinand!" she gasped, and, stepping back a pace, gazed through her tears into his face.

"Eh! Prince Ferdinand," he answered, in scorn, "and curse the day that made me so. I am no struggling student. Curse the day that made me Prince, I say! Curse the day!"

"Prince Ferdinand," she repeated, and I thought the girl must be bewitched, for she smiled.

I caught him by the arm and drew him towards me, for I could see by the look on her face that she was no scheming adventuress.

"If there be disgrace," I cried, witheringly, "it is yours. You came with deceit and falsehood. You won her heart, pretending to be such as she, no better in the world's eyes, and no worse."

"Were I Prince a thousand times over, and a thousand times on that," he answered, softly, "I would give it all for her."

"Happily, there must be two to the bargain, and she is too true a woman to hold you, when she knows it means your social ruin."

"On the contrary, madame; now I know he is what he is I will marry him."

Her face was wreathed in smiles, smiles that had chased away the mist of sorrow's tears, and I shuddered as I realized that I had brought about the very end that I came to prevent.

"You will marry him?" I gasped.

"_Oui_, madame," she replied, and courtesied to the ground. "You know me. Are we not what the world calls eligibles?"

I could only gaze in bewilderment.

"Tell the Prince who I am," she cried, with a roguish laugh; and then, as I still stood silent, she courtesied again to the ground before him.

"Rene, only daughter of the Compte de Pontiers, may it please your Highness," she murmured.

He would have taken her to his arms in a rush of delight, but she ceremoniously waved him back.

"Present us with all due form and etiquette, madame."