"If you remember, Citizen First Consul," he said "I told you that at one time mademoiselle was not averse to my suit—that in all probability I would have won her hand in St. Louis, but that her mind was poisoned against me by malicious insinuations and fabrications, the work of a rival who desired to win her for himself?"
The chevalier waited for the Consul's reply, and he nodded curtly.
"Well?"
"Citizen First Consul, that rival is the nephew of Minister Marbois, and I have brought him here to ask him to renounce publicly all claims to the hand of the Citizeness de Baloit."
I saw a flash in the beautiful eyes, and a proud toss of the little head that I well knew meant, "He has no claim," and I hastened to speak.
"Sire," I said quickly, and then stopped in confusion. How could I have made such an egregious blunder as to address the first citizen of the republic by a royal title? Yet it was a natural enough mistake, for no Czar or Sultan or Grand Mogul was ever a more autocratic ruler than he, or made men tremble more at his nod. I thought I had no doubt ruined my cause in the very outset, for a dark frown gathered between the Consul's brows, but it quickly disappeared.
"I believe you spoke innocently, young man," he said, with a smile of rare sweetness. "Speak on!"
"Pardon, Citizen First Consul," I said—"it was indeed an innocent mistake"; and then I added with a sudden impulse of audacity, "but a very natural one."
The Consul answered me only with his flashing smile, that transfigured his face, and I hurried on:
"I wish to say, sir, that I have no claim to the hand of Mademoiselle la Comtesse." I saw from the tail of my eye her head take a prouder pose and her lips curl scornfully as she perceived that I was tamely renouncing my "claim" at the chevalier's bidding; but I went calmly on: "I have always known that there was a great gulf fixed between the proud Lady of France of royal blood and a simple American gentleman. Mademoiselle la Comtesse has never given me any reason to hope that that gulf could be crossed, but," and I turned and looked straight at the chevalier,—and if my head was flung back too proudly and my eyes flashed too fiercely and my voice rang out too defiantly, it was from no lack of respect to the great Bonaparte, but because my soul was seething with wrath and indignation against that cowardly villain "but should Mademoiselle la Comtesse give me the faintest hope that the honest love of an honest American heart could weigh with her against lands and titles, that the devotion of a lifetime to her every thought and desire could hope to win her love, then no argument the Chevalier Le Moyne could bring to bear would have a feather's weight with me. I would renounce my 'claim to her hand' only with my life!"