"I mean to be great and rich, Mademoiselle," he added after a pause."I always have risked my life for that purpose half a dozen times."

Mathilde stood looking across the chamber towards the window. He couldonly look at her profile and the straight line of her lips. She too wasthe product of a generation in which men rose to dazzling heightswithout the aid of women.

"I should not have troubled you with these details, Mademoiselle,"he exclaimed, watching her. His instinct was somewhat keen, for not onewoman in a thousand, even in those days, would have admitted thatlove was a detail. "I should not have mentioned it--had you notgiven me your views--so strangely in harmony with my own."

Whatever his nationality, his voice was that of a Pole--rich,musical, and expressive. He could have made, one would havethought, a very different sort of love had he wished, or had he beensincere. But he was an opportunist. This was the sort of love thatMathilde wanted.

He came a step nearer to her and stood resting on his sword--a leanhard man who had seen much war.

"Until you opened my eyes," he said, "I did not know, or did notcare to know, that love, far from being a drag on ambition, may be ahelp."

Mathilde made a little movement towards him which she instantlyrepressed. The heart is quicker, but the head nearly always has thelast word.

"Mademoiselle," he exclaimed--and no doubt he saw the movement and therestraint--"will you help me now at the beginning of the war, andlisten to me again at the end of it--if I succeed?"

After all, he was modest inside his demands.

"Will you help me? Together, Mademoiselle--to what height may wenot rise in these days?"