The wind moaned down the mountain side, and the slender trees swayed and bent; only the heavy and ponderous cactus remained motionless, a formidable monarch receiving obeisance from supple courtiers. Like cymbals, the leaves clashed around this armament of power with its thousand spears out-thrust in all directions.
The ash fell from the cigar as Mauville held the weed before his eyes.
“It is an hour-glass,” he muttered. “When smoked––Oh, for the power of Jupiter to order four nights in one, the better to pursue his love follies! Love follies,” he repeated, and, as a new train of fancy was awakened, he regarded Saint-Prosper venomously.
“Do you know she is the daughter of a marquis?” said Mauville, suddenly.
“Who?” asked the soldier.
“The stroller, of course. You can never win her,” he added, contemptuously. “She knows all about that African affair.”
Saint-Prosper started violently, but in a moment 447 Mauville’s expression changed, and he appeared plunged in thought.
“The last time I saw her,” he said, half to himself, “she was dressed in black––her face as noonday––her hair black as midnight––crowning her with languorous allurement!”
He repeated the last word several times like a man in a dream.
“Allurement! allurement!” and again relapsed into a silence that was half-stupor.