“My Sergeant has gone to the wars,
Far off to war in Flanders.
He’s a bold prince of commanders,
With a fame like Alexander’s–
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
“Mon Sergot s’en va t-en guerre–
Ne sais quand reviendra.
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!”
Having thus ousted the crusading hero of the song, and put the slang for “sergeant” in his stead, Jacqueline leaned back on the gunwale quite contented. She fell to gazing on the transparent emerald of the inshore, and plunged in her hand. The soft, plump wrist turned baby pink under the riffles. Of a sudden Berthe her maid half screamed, whereat with a delighted little gasp of fright, she jerked out the hand. But she put it back again, to tempt the watchful shark out there.
“My grandfather was only a duke,” she mused aloud, very humbly. But she peeped up at Ney in the most exasperating manner. He could just see the gray eyes behind the edge of lace that fell from the slanting brim of her hat. He would not, though, meet the challenge. He kept to sincerity as the safer ground.
8“Like mine, mademoiselle, yours made himself one, under Napoleon.”
“The great Napoleon,” she corrected him gently.
Michel assented with a sad little nod. Then he raised his head bravely. “And why not do things without a great Napoleon, and, after all, isn’t he a Napoleon, and one who––”
“Is lucky enough to bear a name that means seven million votes. I should rather be a ‘sergeant’ and congratulate none but myself on it, Monsieur the–Duke.”
Again, with the wisdom of a slow intelligence, the Chasseur held back from her subtleties. If only he might betray her into frankness–a compliment she paid to few men and to a woman never–then, just possibly, he might make her tractable as to their prompt return to the ship.
“Still, it is a name to rally to,” he persisted, acknowledging in spite of himself the magic that had swayed the Old Guard.
For once she left the poor shark in peace.