“Count Frechenfels is most interesting, Gerard,” said Helena. “He was in the Franco-German war, and he has been wounded—everywhere! There was room. My cousin also is a soldier—Herr Graf.”
“Ah!” said the Count, through his eye-glass. “Is it you that the Baron was telling me of, who had served with the army of Africa?”
Gerard looked uncomfortable.
“But no, my dear Count,” said Helena, laughing; “that was my cousin Ursula’s father! Gerard has never killed anything but ladies.”
“Ah!” said the German again, in a different tone, and dropped the eye-glass. “La campagne des dames. Well, it is that in which the worst wounds are received.”
“My cousin does not think so,” murmured Helena, cruel in her coquetry. Gerard’s eyes blazed with a quick flash of resentment. His sister-in-law had drawn near, from a helpless feeling that she must amuse her guests.
“Ah, yours is a splendid army,” continued Helena, provokingly. “I don’t think I should care to be an officer unless I could be a Prussian. Victorious, irresistible, bronzed, scarred, the cross on your breast—that’s a soldier! What’s the use of a sword that you never can draw?”
“Come, come, you are too hard on your cousin,” said Count Frechenfels, with patronizing complacency. “After all, he cannot help himself. We Germans, also, we do not kill men in times of peace.”
“At least not officers!” exclaimed Gerard, breaking loose.
The big Prussian replaced his eye-glass, with silently insolent interrogation.