“There, there,” said she, with a smile, as she held out her hand to him; “we are friends.”
The poor fellow pressed it to his lips with the respectful devotion of a Bayard; and with a muttered “This evening,” left the room.
“It is no small triumph, Mademoiselle,” said I, “that you have inspired such a passion in the hardy breast of the cuirassier.”
A saucy shake of the head, as though she did not like the compliment, was the only reply. She bent her head down over her work, and seemed absorbed in its details; while I, reverting to my own cares, became silent also.
“And so, Monsieur,” said she, after a long pause—“and so you deem this conquest of mine a very wonderful thing?”
“You mistake me,” said I, eagerly,—“you mistake me much. My surprise was rather that one like Pioche, good-hearted, simple fellow as he is, should possess the refinement of feeling—”
“A clever flank movement of yours. Lieutenant,” interposed she, with a pleasant laugh; “and I'll not attack you again. And, after all, I am a little proud of my conquest.”
“The confession is a flattering one, from one who doubtless has had a great many to boast of.”