"Now what is the meaning of this?" said Ives de Blanzy harshly. "This is
not the paper! The cursed thing is blank inside!"
My father snatched it from his hands.
"Blank!" he muttered. "Blank! Clean as the driven snow! Is it possible I
have failed in everything?"
Mademoiselle had moved forward, and touched his arm. He glanced at her
quickly, and slowly his frown vanished.
"Naturally it is blank, captain," said Mademoiselle. "I took the real one
from you this morning when you left it in your volume of Rabelais. I
thought that you might place it there. I am sorry, captain, sorry now
that you made me take you seriously."
The paper dropped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, but
strangely enough he did not appear chagrined. His gallantry was back with
him again, and with it all his courtesy.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I should have known you better. Will there
always be a woman where there is trouble?"
"And you have not made me hate you, Captain," Mademoiselle continued.
"But you, my son," said my father, "you understand?"