“Ah,” he said gaily, “then the guns do not keep you from the gardens, ladies?”
Thérèse Lavencourt laughed in that high key which was the terror of amateur pianists who played often at her mother’s house.
“Oh, but you are here, monsieur,” she said.
He bowed at the compliment, and other officers, hussars, and francs-tireurs came up to the place.
“Here is Mademoiselle Lavencourt, come to dance to the music of the guns,” he exclaimed; “we shall make a set of quadrilles, eh, Duvisne!”
A very thin lancer, thus appealed to, answered:
“The set would only be complete when the Captain comes back. Have you any news of your husband, Madame Lefort?”
Beatrix looked at Gatelet in spite of herself, but answered frankly—
“I believe he is at Ulm, Monsieur. He will not give his parole, and we must wait for your dance until the war is over.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried several voices together, but Gatelet said—