So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the almost superhuman pride of 336 noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of a French song:
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“Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames; Adieu les filles et les femmes––” |
Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier’s thoughts reverted to the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself, seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces of men who had well-nigh drained life’s novelties; the artificially vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety! Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there, looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of admiration and friendliness.
“Don’t you like her?” a voice next to him had asked.
Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.
“Yes,” he had replied.
Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had surged and flowed––as they were surging and flowing now.
“Is he not handsome, Constance’s new admirer?” whispered Susan. “What can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.