“RODRIGO GALÁN”
“The fierce stranger, however, seemed undecided.
His brow furrowed, and for the moment he only stared”
19Now when Jacqueline peeped–there was something irresistible about it–the furrows in the black-beetled brow smoothed themselves out, whether the stranger meant them to or not. And a vague resolve took hold on him, and quickened his breath. Her glance might have been invitation–Tampico was not a drawing room–but still he hesitated. There was a certain hauteur in the set of the demoiselle’s head, which outbalanced the mischief in her eyes. He felt an indefinable severity in her tempting beauty, and this was new to his philosophy of woman. But as he drank in further details, his resolve stiffened. That Grecian bend to her crisp skirt was evidently an extreme from the Rue de la Paix, foretelling the end of stupendous flounces. Then there was the tilt to the large hat, and the veil falling to the level of the eyes, and the disquieting charm of both. The wine-red lips had a way of smiling and curling at the same time. And still again there was that line of the neck, from the shoulder up to where it hid under the soft, old-gold tendrils, and that line was a thing of beauty and seductive mystery. The dreadful ranchero went down in humility before the splendor of the tantalizing Parisienne.
Michel Ney leaned nearer over the table. “In all conscience, mademoiselle, your Fra Diavolo is bizarre enough,” he said, “but please don’t let us stir him up. Think, if anything should happen to you, why Mexico, why France would––”
“You flatter!” she mocked him. “Only two empires to keep me out of a flirtation? It’s not enough, Michel.”
A shadow fell over them. “My apologies,” spoke a deep voice, “but the señorita, she is going to the City, to the Capital, perhaps?”
The syllables fell one by one, distinct and heavy. The Spanish was elaborately cermonious, but the accent was Mexican and almost gutteral.
“L’impertinent!” cried Ney, bounding to his feet. No diffidence cloyed his manner now. He was on familiar ground at last, for the first time since fighting Arabs in Algeria. 20He was supremely happy too, and as mad as a Gaul can be. “L’impertinent!” he repeated, coaxingly.
“Now don’t be ridiculous, Michel,” said Jacqueline. “He can’t understand you.”
Moreover, the fame of the Chasseurs, of those colossal heroes with their terrible sabres, of their legendary prowess in the Crimea, in China, in Italy, in Africa, none of it seemed to daunt the Mexican in the least.
“How, little Soldier-Boy Blue?” he inquired with cumbrous pleasantry.