Calm and still was the morning; the wandering air just stirred the pendulous branches of the elms and maples, and, in the clear atmosphere, the russet hills were sharply outlined. As they swung out into the road, with Hans, the musician, at the reins, the young girl removed her bonnet and leaned back in the chair of state, where kings had fretted and queens had lolled.
The throne, imposing on the stage, now appeared but a flimsy article of furniture, with frayed and torn upholstering, and carving which had long since lost its gilded magnificence. Seated amid the jumble of theatrical appliances and accoutrements––scenery, rolled up rug-fashion, property trunks, stage clock, lamps and draperies––she accepted the situation gracefully, even finding nothing strange in the presence of the soldier. New faces had come and gone in the company before, and, when Barnes had complacently informed her Saint-Prosper would journey with the players to New Orleans in a semi-business capacity, 88 the arrangement appeared conformable to precedent. The manager’s satisfaction augured well for the importance of the semi-business rôle assumed by the stranger, and Barnes’ friendliness was perhaps in some degree unconsciously reflected in her manner; an attitude the soldier’s own reserve, or taciturnity, had not tended to dispel. So, his being in the property wagon seemed no more singular than Hans’ occupancy of the front seat, or if Adonis, Hawkes, or Susan had been there with her. She was accustomed to free and easy comradeship; indeed, knew no other life, and it was only assiduous attentions, like those of the land baron’s, that startled and disquieted her.
As comfortably as might be, she settled back in the capacious, threadbare throne, a slender figure in its depths––more adapted to accommodate a corpulent Henry VIII!––and smiled gaily, as the wagon, in avoiding one rut, ran into another and lurched somewhat violently. Saint-Prosper, lodged on a neighboring trunk, quickly extended a steadying hand.
“You see how precarious thrones are!” he said.
“There isn’t room for it to more than totter,” she replied lightly, removing her bonnet and lazily swinging it from the arm of the chair.
“Then it’s safer than real thrones,” he answered, watching the swaying bonnet, or perhaps, contrasting the muscular, bronzed hand he had placed on the chair with the smooth, white one which held the blue ribbons; 89 a small, though firm, hand to grapple with the minotaur, Life!
She slowly wound the ribbons around her fingers.
“Oh, you mean France,” she said, and he looked away with sudden disquietude. “Poor monarchs! Their road is rougher than this one.”
“Rougher truly!”
“You love France?” she asked suddenly, after studying, with secret, sidelong glances his reserved, impenetrable face.