'What cruel enigma is this?'
'Mademoiselle de Lorraine, you are no longer Nicola, the poor, fugitive soubrette; and in a mere worldly point of view, you are far, far above me; though I am a gentleman, whose fathers for six hundred years have borne their crest in battle on their helmets; yet what have I, an exile, a soldier of fortune, to offer worthy even a smile from the daughter of Charles IV., the victor of Prague, and the hero of Poligni?'
'My poor Arthur! you have that which is better than all the crowns of Europe—a faithful and true heart; I find that I must speak for you as well as for myself. Marie Louise cannot lose that heart, which she won as Nicola. Love has a language that cannot be expressed by words alone; thus your tenderness and diffidence, even with the poor soubrette, were the surest indication of the depth of yours.'
'Oh, yes!' said I, clasping my hands; 'my love is equalled only by your beauty and your merit.'
'Now,' she exclaimed, almost playfully, 'you must not be imitating Ronsard.'
'I am in agony, and you speak to me in jest.'
'And so you would not give one golden hair of Nicola's head for Louise of Lorraine, with all her rank and beauty? Oh, poor M. Blane, what say you now?'
'Jesting yet! I say that I think so still, and yet—my heart, God help me, feels broken.'
'Come—come—allons!' said she, waving her pretty white hand; 'be a man, Arthur; what say you to join my father, and fight under the standard of the Emperor?'
'By the side of Pappenheim and De Bitche?'