"So republican, you would say. Ah, mon Dieu," said she, shrugging her white shoulders, "I only meant to be droll, and you actually scold me already. Well—is this better?"
Halte là! halte là!
La Garde Royale est là!
And she waggishly sang a verse of this song, which was wont to be a favourite with the Chevalier Dutriel.
"'Tis a camp ditty, and if mamma hears me, she will not be pleased. Ah," she added, turning over her music, "here is something you will like better:—
Adieu, charmant pays de France!
Que je dois tant chérir,
Berceau de mon heureuse enfance,
Adieu, te quitter c'est mourir!"
and so on, she sang with exquisite sweetness the Adieux de Marie Stuart. We were, I thought, alone; my arm was around her, and turning her dear little face to mine, I kissed her tenderly.
"Morbleu!" said an angry voice close by.
I turned, and saw her father surveying us sternly, as he appeared with unpleasant suddenness at one of the drawing-room windows, which unfolded to the tiled floor of the verandah. Striking his gold-headed cane with great irritation on the tiles, with his wig and old-fashioned coat, he bore the closest resemblance to the angry Father of the old comedy that ever I beheld.
"Retire, mademoiselle," said he; "and as for you, M. le Capitaine, you will be pleased—sacre!—to follow me to the library."
Georgette retired—she almost fled, while I followed Père de Thoisy into his library, which was decorated in a very florid style, after that of his late Most Christian Majesty's "snuggery" in the Louvre. Coldly, but politely, the old gentleman at once brought me "to book" on the subject of my intentions.