The gentlemen lingered over their wine; much "shop and pipeclay" were talked, with reserve, however, as Eugene was present; but the merits of the new shako, and the probability of the expected brevet, were as usual fully discussed. The first to join the ladies in the drawing-room was Quentin, who felt very much as if in a dream, from which he might waken to find himself in the cabin of the Bien Aimé, in the Villa de Orsan, or, worse still, in some comfortless bivouac in Estremadura; and glad were these united friends when the guests had taken their leave, and they were all left to themselves in the drawing-room.
Much conversation and many explanations ensued; and a very simple remark, by stirring a certain chord of memory, was the happy means of bringing about a very unexpected revelation or dénouement—one, indeed, so remarkable as to deserve a chapter to itself.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE REVELATIONS OF A NIGHT.
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while you may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry."—HERRICK.
"It has come strangely about, Madame Rohallion, how my son Eugene, and your—your friend, Mr. Kennedy, have met during the contingencies of service in Spain," said Madame de Ribeaupierre; "and it is all the more strange that my name was once Kennedy."
We are sorry to say that the good lady pronounced it Kinnidee.
"Yours, madame?"
"My first husband was so named."
"Madame has then been twice married?"