"Ah! She is divine," cried Beaumont, again becoming ecstatic. "I can never forget her."
"Did you never forget her?" asked Helen, demurely.
"No, never."
"Not even when dancing at the Citadel with Louise de Rochefort?" she asked mischievously.
Beaumont's face flushed.
"Pardonnez, Madam, that was a little break—an hour's amusement—une petite Mademoiselle of my own people, and in my own old city! What harm? Surely you will not ask a Frenchman to stand at one side and allow all the beauty and élite sweep past him in the gay valse without saying a word. No, no, Madam, that would never do"; and he finished by shaking his curls in a merry laugh.
"And you think you are deeply, earnestly, sincerely in love with Maud?"
"I swear it. She is divine, I say. Her glorious eyes, her ravishing beauty, her inflexible will, her exquisite soul, make me her slave, and I cannot help myself. Madam, I adore her. She is my patron saint, my heavenly jewel on earth!"
"You deserve to win her," said Helen, gravely. "Why not press your suit by letter more strongly than you have ever done?"
"That I cannot do. I gave her my word not to attempt it any more until I see her. Of course I write; my letters are full of love. Mon Dieu! How can I help it? But I am never to ask her to be mine until I see her."