"Mademoiselle," I said, "do you know that to-day you are no longer a proud lady of France, but a simple American maiden?"
She looked up at me, startled. I think she knew what was coming, but she answered bravely, though softly:
"Yes, monsieur," and then dropped her eyes and fell to playing with Fatima's mane again.
"Mademoiselle, do you remember on La Belle Rivière the wager you would not let me make?"
"Yes, monsieur," still more softly.
"Mademoiselle, if I had made that wager then I would have won it to-day. You taught me better, and I would not win you by a wager now if I could. But oh, mademoiselle, you said by worth and deeds of prowess a maiden's hand should be won; and there is no one in the world—least of all I—worthy of you, mademoiselle, and no deeds of prowess could be grand enough to deserve you, and I have nothing to win you with but my great love; will that avail me,—Pelagie?"
She did not answer for a moment; she was all rosy and drooping, and with a happy smile about her lips, as she had been in the cabinet of the First Consul.
I put my great hand on her little one, still playing with Fatima's mane, and clasped it tight, though it fluttered like a bird at first and then lay quiet.
"Pelagie, Pelagie, look up at me," I whispered. "I may call you Pelagie, may I not?"
Swiftly and shyly she looked up into my eyes, and I looked down into heaven.