Useless was it that the marquise stepped with dignity after the vivandiere at this declaration of war.
“Now, fall in there. Right about face. Ma-r-r-rch.”
“Girl!”
“Rataplan—rataplan!”
Tramp, tramp, up and down the room went the soldier and the girl, the marquise continually following and expostulating.
At last she could bear it no longer, so she took advantage of marching right to the door-post with them, not to wheel, but to keep straight on through the doorway, and to fluster up to her own apartments.
And very apropos had she retreated, for barely had she gone when the military manœuvres were brought to a close by an announcement of the steward, as he stood judiciously outside the door, prepared to run in case of military assault—an announcement to the effect that one of the brave eleventh was at the door.
Whereat the steward flew on one side to make room for a charge on the part of both sergeant and lady, who both rushed to the door to welcome the visitor.
And who was that visitor from the brave eleventh?
Tony! and a score more, who came storming the place as though they had a right to do so. And when they reached the grand drawing-room, where the duke was to be received, they set up such a shout as almost paralyzed the marquise, who, as she did not come to ascertain the cause of the uproar was, perhaps, temporarily deprived of the power of action or remonstrance.