'How can we ever part, Nicola? When the time comes, I shall be the most wretched man in Lorraine.'
'A gallant man would have said "in the world,"' she replied, with a waggish smile; 'but will not M. l'Abbé have his prayers to attend to?
'By Jove! my dear girl, then I shall have to pray in my helmet and boots, like a bishop of Cahors.'
I observed, however, that unless my remarks savoured of the merest commonplace, of the scenery, the towns we passed through, or of the war which had cast us so oddly together, she was usually silent; and whenever I attempted to become tender or complimentary (and then only with a timidity for which I could not account), she betrayed a mixture of cloudy reserve, or quick irritation, which, if not very artful in a soubrette, were decidedly perplexing to me.
She was a singularly seductive girl; and with all my growing love for her, I began to fear—I knew not why—that she might be playing some deep game with me; and at one time this idea was strong in me—the more so when I remembered the peculiarly artful and intriguing character of the person who had confided her to me—the Countess, her late mistress. Yet when I gazed upon her pure, pale brow, and into her quiet, deep, and trusting eyes, thoughts that were gentler, kinder, and more loving filled my heart. Poor little Nicola!
In my attentions to her, as I became more delicate, or pointed, which you will, the more reserved did she seem, and the more anxious to hasten on her journey. This only served to pique me, to whet my interest and curiosity, and to render me more perplexed as to her real objects and character; and I observed at Meaux, Château Thierri, Epernay, and other places, when we put up at an inn or hostelry, she studiously secluded herself from me in her own apartment, and pleading fatigue, whether falsely or truly I knew not, rarely took even a meal with me; and never appeared until our horses were again at the door, bridled and saddled for us to resume our journey.
I observed, that whenever I spoke of the Countess, her cheeks were wont to flush, and her usually gentle blue eyes to sparkle with an anger which she was at little pains to conceal—thus betraying an impatience and irritation very remarkable in one generally so soft in manner, and gentle in disposition.
'Now what may all this mean?' thought I; 'is my little soubrette in love with me herself, and jealous of the Countess? Courage, Arthur Blane, and probe this other mystery.'
On the road towards Chalons, while traversing one of those broad and beautiful valleys which intersect Champagne, I spoke with such unreasonable admiration of Clara d'Amboise, that tears actually stood in the fine eyes of my companion.
'This Countess—,' I faltered, beginning to deprecate, but not knowing what to say.