“The Pigeons are out early to-night. Where are the rest of the Pouters?”
Léontine’s face was a study. A flash of rage from her bright eyes was succeeded by a look of puzzled helplessness, and then a radiant smile of delight. This was really too good. He—old P. M. P.—had mistaken her, Léontine de Meneval, for one of the young ladies from the Pigeon House! Angry as she was, she could not forbear laughing, and she replied, with her sauciest air:
“Oh, they’ll be here presently. I came early because I had a premonition that old P. M. P. would be here early, too. Always on time—one of the cardinal virtues of a soldier.” And then Satan tempted her to tiptoe and actually chuck old P. M. P. under the chin!
The effect frightened her for a moment or two, because Major Fallière, perfectly astounded and highly offended, drew himself up stiffly and glared at her like an ogre. But she was so very pretty, her impertinence was accompanied with such a charming air of simplicity, that no man not an absolute ogre could withstand it. So, in spite of himself, old P. M. P.’s backbone relaxed, his eyes softened and he tugged at his mustache to disguise the smile that would persist in coming.
Léontine having once admitted Satan into her heart, he speedily took complete possession of the premises, and the next thing he inspired her to do was to examine the prim Major carefully from the top of his thinly thatched head down to the tips of his well-fitting shoes, and say to him:
“I have often heard of you, and I am so glad to meet you. You know you are quite a handsome man, Major.”
The Major grinned.
“For your age, that is.”
The Major scowled.