“Does she love you?”
“She loves me—now you will laugh—solely because I’m a Pole. She saw an engraving of Poles rushing with Poniatowski into the Elster,—for all France persists in thinking that the Elster, where it is impossible to get drowned, is an impetuous flood, in which Poniatowski and his followers were engulfed. But in the midst of all this I am very unhappy, madame.”
A tear of rage fell from his eyes and affected the countess.
“You men have such a passion for singularity.”
“And you?” said Thaddeus.
“I know Adam so well that I am certain he could forget me for some mountebank like your Malaga. Where did you first see her?”
“At Saint-Cloud, last September, on the fete-day. She was at a corner of a booth covered with flags, where the shows are given. Her comrades, all in Polish costumes, were making a horrible racket. I watched her standing there, silent and dumb, and I thought I saw a melancholy expression in her face; in truth there was enough about her to sadden a girl of twenty. That touched me.”
The countess was sitting in a delicious attitude, pensive and rather melancholy.
“Poor, poor Thaddeus!” she exclaimed. Then, with the kindliness of a true great lady she added, not without a malicious smile, “Well go, go to your Circus.”
Thaddeus took her hand, kissed it, leaving a hot tear upon it, and went out.