“I tell you,” exclaimed the impatient girl, “you won’t find any precedence for shooting in that thing. A doomed man hasn’t any, take the word of the Dama Mayor.”
“Dama Mayor?” This was more tangible, and the Grand Uniform seized on it gratefully. “But,” and he quoted from the Ritual in triumph, “no Dama can present herself except on matters of service.”
Jacqueline hedged guilefully. “Of course not,” she agreed, “and it’s precisely that why I must see His Majesty. It’s about, about a piece of valencienne he wished me to bring the Empress from Europe.”
The Oficial de Ordenes hesitated. “But the man to be shot?”
141“No matter, the lace is my business.”
With which assurance, the Grand Uniform presumed to announce la Señorita Marquesa d’Aumerle. He reappeared at once from the inner apartment. The Emperor’s order to admit her that instant rather disturbed his faith in the Ritual and the leisurely decorum it prescribed.
Hardly had she stepped within the portières than someone caught her hand, and she saw Maximilian bending over it. There was an involuntary warmth in his formal courtier grace. The only other occupant of the hacienda sala was Bebello, the greyhound. He sprang up from a Hungarian bear rug, and frisked about her joyfully. Her greeting to him was equally sincere. Quietly releasing her hand, she patted him fondly, and cooed endearing French. “My little Tou-Tou! Pauvre petite bête!” Then, raising her head, she seemed to perceive His Majesty, “Isn’t a bit older, is he, sire?”
“Mademoiselle!” the man exclaimed reproachfully.
All the time he was staring at her. He stared at the tempestuous ruffling of her petticoat, which had a wanton air that was most disturbing, at the rebosa tossed rakishly over her shoulder, with the waistline beneath as languorously suggested as though she were Spanish-born to rebosas, and lastly, at a freckle on the very tip of the creamy nose. He admired extravagantly, but he was no less amazed to see her at all. A moment before he had supposed her demurely breaking hearts at St. Cloud, and Paris under her feet. He knew how capable she was. It had happened to him. How he had sought her, before she left! And how maddening she was! He could recall nothing of encouragement, and yet, blind, susceptible fool, he had never ceased to be encouraged. She was a master craftsman, since her art was hidden. Then she had gone back to France; some said because of a note from Napoleon. But he was of the gloomy opinion that she had simply ceased to amuse herself. Yet for all that, here 142she was again, and the astonished prince was eager to suffer yet more, if it amused her still.
She explained in a word, as though their meeting in the Huasteca were nothing extraordinary. Away from Mexico, she had discovered that she wanted to return to Mexico. The man left in Mexico would have augured much from this, but at her matter-of-fact tone the glad light faded from his eyes. Jacqueline, by the way, was a good manager. She reminded him that she had no mother nor father nor other relative in France–which disposed of France. Then, though he winced, she added that the experiment of a New World court was a novel spectacle and she enjoyed it more than the conventional affairs in Europe. Accordingly she would resume her place as first lady of honor. At Tampico she had wearied of ocean travel, and–well, that was all.