General Vogotzine, in a handsome uniform, half suffocated in his high vest, and with a row of crosses upon his breast—the military cross of St. George, with its red and black ribbon; the cross of St. Anne, with its red ribbon; all possible crosses—was the first to knock at his niece’s door, his sabre trailing upon the floor.
“Who is it?” said Marsa.
“I, Vogotzine.”
And, permission being given him, he entered the room.
The old soldier walked about his niece, pulling his moustache, as if he were conducting an inspection. He found Marsa charming. Pale as her white robe, with Tizsa’s opal agraffe at her side, ready to clasp the bouquet of flowers held by one of her maids, she had never been so exquisitely beautiful; and Vogotzine, who was rather a poor hand at turning a compliment, compared her to a marble statue.
“How gallant you are this morning, General,” she said, her heart bursting with emotion.
She waved away, with a brusque gesture, the orange-flowers which her maid was about to attach to her corsage.
“No,” she said. “Not that! Roses.”
“But, Mademoiselle—”
“Roses,” repeated Marsa. “And for my hair white rosebuds also.”