woman," he explained. "At least, she had been pretty; and she was again
pretty; when she did that. Her eyes--it was like lighting a fire in a
cave. Did you ever light a fire in a cave, madame?" he queried, gently,
graciously; and then: "But, of course not! Women kindle their fires in
stoves--or fireplaces. It is for men to light the fires of caves." Yet
once more he laughed, softly.

The old woman, with the white, wispy hair, still was silent, motionless;
though her eyes spoke. And that which they spoke, his eyes heard; and
once more he laughed.

"I had a daughter here," he continued. "Did I not? Or was it a son? _Ma
foi_! It were difficult--ah, yes! I remember now! A daughter. A
little, red, hairless, dirty thing she was. I have a great curiosity--
the blood of three kings, you know; surely that would overcome the blood
of the good God knows how many peasant swine. She is not red, and
hairless, and dirty now, in faith! She is clean-limbed, and straight, and
white. A thousand louis to a sou, that she is!" ... His brow was creased
in the travail or retrospection.

"I gave her a name, did I not?" he asked. "It seems to me--ah, yes. Rien,
it was. A very pretty name--yes, an excellent name--meaning much and
little--everything, and yet nothing." He laughed at his own conceit,
softly. "Tell me, where is she now? It might be that she is dead, eh?" He
eyed the old woman, closely; then he shook his head. "No," he went on,
"she is not dead. She--"

He had seen nothing, that is certain. Yet, suddenly he ceased in his
speech; the smile left his lips; and slowly, very slowly, he turned.