I was looking at mademoiselle while I spoke, and she raised her eyes to mine with sudden comprehension, a beautiful blush suffusing her fair face. Madame, following my glance, and seeing mademoiselle’s confusion, gave me a look that would have annihilated a timid man; but I was too old a soldier to shrink under a woman’s disapprobation, and I took the opportunity to address her niece.
“Mademoiselle has never been to France?” I asked, changing my position so as to stand between the two women.
“I have not had that happiness, M. le Vicomte,” she replied in her soft voice, which had none of her aunt’s shrewish tones.
“It is a fair country, mademoiselle,” I said pleasantly, covertly watching madame’s growing anger; “I wish that you might see it and know my daughter, who is, I think, nearly of your age.”
“It would give me much pleasure, monsieur,” she replied softly, her blue eyes glancing at me with a certain penetration which showed me that she had a character of her own behind that modest and blushing exterior.
“Mademoiselle would love France,” I went on easily, watching both aunt and niece; “it is the country of beautiful women and brave men.”
Madame laughed harshly. “M. le Maréchal has an excellent opinion of his own countrymen,” she said sharply.
“Naturally, madame,” I replied suavely; “although Russia is equally fortunate with us in the beauty of her women, I will not admit that her men are more brave.”
Madame swept me a mocking curtsy.
“The men of mature years are doubtless worthy of every panegyric, M. le Vicomte,” she said tartly; “but the young French gallants whom I meet lack discretion.”