"Little rogue, you are angry!"
"Oh no! my lord, I am not," replied Gabrielle, trembling with fear and perplexity.
"How could you be angry? 'twould be very cruel; 'tis only a bridegroom's privilege, for we are to be married to-morrow by Camargo's chaplain. Der Teufel! yes—I will show you a magnificent dress which our quartermaster picked up somewhere; it is worth ten thousand ducats if it is worth a stiver! and you are to be married in that, my pretty one. It will almost stand with seed pearls and embroidery—yes, 'tis devilish fine, I assure you; and in it my little bride will look magnificent. Ah! come and give me a kiss! Do not be angry, 'tis the wine—strong wine. The dress, it belonged to the Countess of Fehmarn, old King Kit's one-eyed wife—I mean the left-hand of old King Christian. 'Tis a glorious fashion that of his, marrying one wife for love and another for money. If the emperor would only marry my sister Josephine in that way, I should be sure of my marshal's baton—but what do I care for money? We don't want it—we Merodeurs—no! we pay all our scores with a roll on the drum, or by hanging up the burgomaster. I wonder if the devil will be satisfied with a check on the same bank; but he beats a little on the drum himself, for we all know the devil's tattoo."
"Oh, what a sensual wretch is this when compared to Ian Dhu, that soul of honour!" thought Gabrielle, as Merodé rocked himself on a chair during his long and rambling speech, which was interrupted by many a hiccup.
Every moment she expected the arrival of Bernhard, and now she was locked into her chamber with her intoxicated tormentor—locked in hopelessly for the night.
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle," said the count; "dost love me any better than at first?"
"My lord," began Gabrielle (willing to humour him a little), "first love——"
"A fig for first love!" cried he, snapping his fingers, and making ineffectual efforts to rise. "'Tis all stuff, and makes a bold fellow timid and retiring—and then the girl, with her mystery, modesty, and touch-me-not face! Bah! 'tis enough to give one a fit of the spleen. Second love is founded upon judgment, and is strengthened and matured by it—yes—I am a philosopher—d—me! But if such is the case with a second or third love, what must be the strength and maturity, the fervour and ferocity of a twentieth love, like mine, for thee? Oh, Gabrielle—Gabrielle, come hither, you little devil, and kiss me!"
At that moment the shrill low whistle of Bernhard sounded beneath the window, and made Gabrielle start.
"So you will not come to me—eh? Ah—true love is always modest and retiring—it likes mystery, too! How good to think that I have had you under lock and key for so many weeks, and not one of my merry rascals—even Count John of Brisgaü or Jehan de Vart—have found you out! Come to me, I tell you, or I shall lose patience; one kiss, little one—only one."