Cigarette shrugged her shoulders.
“There was no goodness, and there need be no thanks. Ask Pere Matou how often I have sat with him hours through.”
“But on a fete-day! And you who love pleasure, and grace it so well—”
“Ouf! I have had so much of it,” said the little one contemptuously. “It is so tame to me. Clouds of dust, scurry of horses, fanfare of trumpets, thunder of drums, and all for nothing! Bah! I have been in a dozen battles—I—and I am not likely to care much for a sham fight.”
“Nay, she is unjust to herself,” murmured Leon Ramon. “She gave up the fete to do this mercy—it has been a great one. She is more generous than she will ever allow. Here, Cigarette, look at these scarlet rosebuds; they are like your bright cheeks. Will you have them? I have nothing else to give.”
“Rosebuds!” echoed Cigarette, with supreme scorn. “Rosebuds for me? I know no rose but the red of the tricolor; and I could not tell a weed from a flower. Besides, I told Miou-Matou just now, if my children do as I tell them, they will not take a leaf or a peach-stone from this grande dame—how does she call herself?—Mme. Corona d'Amague!”
Cecil looked up quickly: “Why not?”
Cigarette flashed on him her brilliant, brown eyes with a fire that amazed him.
“Because we are soldiers, not paupers!”
“Surely; but—”