“These were not given to me, but dropped in passing.”
The great master’s laugh, mirthful, mellow, genial, responded with the words:
“Admit at least that the flowers were dropped most opportunely.”
“Monsieur, if the knot of violets were purposely detached,” said Dunoisse, “then they undoubtedly were meant for you!”
But he made no offer to resign the blossoms, and Hugo laughed again.
“They were not meant for me. Have no fear. I have drunk of a sweet philter that renders men proof against enchantment. I kissed my child, sleeping in its cradle.... My wife said: God keep thee! when I left home to-night.”
The manner had a tinge of grandiloquence, the words did not ring quite true. Dunoisse, like all the rest of the world, knew that the boasted philter was not the infallible preventive.... The scrap of tinsel that would sometimes show among the ermined folds of the kingly mantle peeped out with a vengeance now.... And yet the man possessed a royal, noble nature; and a personality so simply impressive that, if he had chosen to sit upon a three-legged milking stool instead of a carved chair upon a tapestried dais, it would have seemed, not only to his followers, a throne.
He went on to speak of the beauty of the lady of the salon, thrilled Dunoisse by a hint of romance,—breaking off to say:
“But for you, who wear the uniform of M. de Roux’s regiment, there can be nothing new to hear about Madame?”
Did a drop of subtle, cynical acid mingle with the honey of the tone?... Dunoisse was conscious of the tang of bitterness even as he answered: