“Why, what has she done?” asked the good gentlewoman.
“Insisted upon deserting the ball-room!”
“In my day,” said the elderly ally of the nobleman, “you could not drag the young ladies from cotillion or minuet. And the men would stay till the dawn to toast them!”
“And I’ve no doubt, Madam, your name was often on their lips,” returned the count gallantly, who evidently 484 believed in the Spanish proverb: “Woo the duenna, not the maid; then in love the game’s well played!”
The ally in his cause made some laughing response which the soldier did not hear. Himself unseen, Saint-Prosper bent his eyes upon the figure of the young girl, shadowy but obvious in the reflected light of the bright constellations. Even as he gazed, her hand removed the mask, revealing the face he knew so well. In the silence below, the fountain tinkled ever so loudly, as she stood, half-turned toward the garden, a silken head-covering around her shoulders; the head outlined without adornment, save the poppies in her hair.
Her presence recalled scenes of other days: the drive from the races, when her eyes had beamed so softly beneath the starry luster. Did she remember? He dared not hope so; he did not. To him, it brought, also, harsher memories; yet his mind was filled most with her beauty, which appeared to gloss over all else and hold him, a not impassive spectator, to the place where she was standing. She seemed again Juliet––the Juliet of inns and school-house stages––the Juliet he had known before she had come to New Orleans, whose genius had transformed the barren stage into a garden of her own creation.
And yet something made her different; an indefinable new quality appeared to rest upon her. He felt his heart beating faster; he was glad he had come; for the moment he forgot his jealousy in watching 485 her, as with new wealth of perfume, the languid breeze stirred the tresses above her pallid, immovable features. But the expression of confidence with which the count was regarding her, although ostensibly devoting himself to her companion, renewed his inquietude.
Had she allowed herself to be drawn into a promised alliance with that titled roué? Involuntarily the soldier’s face grew hard and stern; the count’s tactics were so apparent––flattering attention to the elderly gentlewoman and a devoted, but reserved, bearing toward the young girl in which he would rely upon patience and perseverance for the consummation of his wishes. But certainly Constance did not exhibit marked preference for his society; on the contrary, she had hardly spoken to him since they had left the ball-room. Now clasping the iron railing of the balcony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.
“It is cold here,” she said, drawing back.
“Allow me––your wrap!” exclaimed the count, springing to her side with great solicitude.