“In the ranks of our army, madame, I think it does—often, indeed, much better.”
Chateauroy had stood by and heard, with as much impatience as he cared to show before guests whose rank was precious to the man who had still weakness enough to be ashamed that his father's brave and famous life had first been cradled under the thatch roof of a little posting-house.
“Victor knows that neither he nor his men have any right to waste their time on such trash,” he said carelessly; “but the truth is they love the canteen so well that they will do anything to add enough to their pay to buy brandy.”
She whom he had called Mme. la Princesse looked with a doubting surprise at the sculptor of the white Arab King she held.
“That man does not carve for brandy,” she thought.
“It must be a solace to many a weary hour in the barracks to be able to produce such beautiful trifles as these?” she said aloud. “Surely you encourage such pursuits, monsieur?”
“Not I,” said Chateauroy, with a dash of his camp tone that he could not withhold. “There are but two arts or virtues for a trooper to my taste—fighting and obedience.”
“You should be in the Russian service, M. de Chateauroy,” said the lady with a smile, that, slight as it was, made the Marquis' eyes flash fire.
“Almost I wish I had been,” he answered her; “men are made to keep their grades there, and privates who think themselves fine gentlemen receive the lash they merit.”
“How he hates his Corporal!” she thought while she laid aside the White King once more.