“Ah! you have petite names, then, in Albion? I should have though she was too somber and too stiff for them. Besides?”
“Lyonnesse.”
“What a droll name! What are you?”
“A soldier.”
“Good! What grade?”
“A Colonel of Guards.”
Cigarette gave a little whistle to herself; she remembered that a Marshal of France had once said of a certain Chasseur, “He has the seat of the English Guards.”
“My pretty catechist, M. le Duc does not tell you his title,” cried one of the officers.
Cigarette interrupted him with a toss of her head.
“Ouf! Titles are nothing to me. I am a child of the People. So you are a Duke, are you, M. le Seraph? Well, that is not much, to my thinking. Bah! there is Fialin made a Duke in Paris, and there are aristocrats here wearing privates' uniforms, and littering down their own horses. Bah! Have you that sort of thing in Albion?”