The smile which Mme. de la Vireville gave the Prince's surgeon when, after examination of her son's hurt, he ordered him at least three days' complete rest, must have gone to his head, for, being a young man and a jocular, he remarked to his patient as he left, "You have a trifle on the breast of your coat, Monsieur—an involuntary token at parting, I take it—which you may like to know of. . . . I hope I have not been indiscreet!"
La Vireville, who, in obedience to orders, was then lying at full length on the little sofa, stared at the speaker rather haughtily and made no answer. But when the door had shut he said, "Look at my coat for me, little mother, and let us see what that farceur meant."
Mme. de la Vireville, who had the sight of a girl, bent over him, and after a second pointed to where, round a button, were tangled two long bright brown hairs.
Her son frowned, then he smiled. "Take them off, my little heart, and keep them for me. I may as well have some souvenir of my 'nephew,' since it is likely to be long enough before I see him again."
Later he was still lying there, and she sat on a stool beside him, her head resting against his pillow, her hand in his. Suddenly he said, though he had been silent a long time:
"I think if . . . I think hers would have been like Anne."
She understood him perfectly, because she, and she alone, knew the bitter grave where his heart was buried.
"Yes . . . but he would have been less fair." She put her hand on his dark hair, and, drawing his bandaged head to her shoulder, kissed it passionately.