He spoke quickly and with unsuppressed excitement, and in his look there was that deep and unquestioning affection which marriage may wring for a day even from the worst of men. Dressed still in his brilliant blue uniform, with a shining czapska in his hand and his sword trailing upon the polished floor of wood, Beatrix thought that in all France there was no man worthy to stand by his side. Even the touch of his hand could make her tremble. She looked into his eyes and believed to read therein the whole story of his love for her. And she was his wife—his wife.
“I am ready, dearest,” she said. “I will go and change now—and you?”
“I shall want five minutes,” he said gaily; “after that the triumphal procession sets out.”
She left the room, unobserved. The men turned to the buffet.
“Shall we see you this winter here?” Lefort asked, while a sergeant filled him a glass of champagne.
Brandon answered evasively.
“I have no plans. I let the weather make them for me. If it is cold at Frankfort, you may hear of me in Nice. But you—you go to Paris, of course.”
Lefort nodded his head.
“There will be the manœuvres first, and after that the other manœuvres—at the bonnet shops. I am hoping that we shall be at Châlons next year. There are too many Germans in Strasburg, you see—and then, change is good for a bride. Beatrix is a stranger, and too much Vosges—but you do not drink. I am as thirsty as a trooper out of Baden. And to-morrow I shall wear a grey coat. Sac à papier, that will make me look like a German band.”