"Yes," she answered, gathering the bridle; "when women shall perhaps be
allowed to be natural. Our mothers played at being afraid--we play at
being courageous."

As she spoke she placed a neat foot in Colonel Gilbert's hand, who lifted
her without effort to the saddle. De Vasselot mounted the Arab, and they
rode slowly homewards by way of the Avenue de Longchamps, through the
Porte Dauphine, and up that which is now the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne,
which was quiet enough at this time of day. The baroness was inclined to
be silent. She had been more shaken than she cared to confess to two
soldiers. Colonel Gilbert probably saw this, for he began to make
conversation with de Vasselot.

"You do not come to Corsica," he said.

"I have never been there--shall never go there," answered de Vasselot.
"Tell me--is it not a terrible place? The end of the world, I am told. My
mother"--he broke off with a gesture of the utmost despair. "She is
dead!" he interpolated--"always told me that it was the most terrible
place in the world. At my father's death, more than thirty years ago, she
quitted Corsica, and came to live in Paris, where I was born, and where,
if God is good, I shall die."

"My cousin, you talk too much of death," put in the baroness, seriously.

"As between soldiers, baroness," replied de Vasselot, gaily. "It is our
trade. You know the island well, colonel?"

"No, I cannot say that. But I know the Chateau de Vasselot."