Nevertheless, he could not forego another effort to rescue her, as he called it. It wanted but a day or two of the wedding when he next got a chance to see her, for she was now watched and guarded almost like a prisoner. Drawing a little packet from his pocket, he said with a sad smile:
“Pauline, here is my wedding gift. It is the most precious, indeed, the only precious, thing I have.”
Pauline opened the packet. It held only a withered rose. She looked in perplexity from the gift to the giver.
“Do you know what rose it is, Pauline? ’Tis the one that was trampled in the mire the day the mousquetaire and Raoul fought.”
“Dear André!” said Pauline, pressing his hand. She was greatly touched by his unobtrusive devotion.
“I have often wondered,” she went on musingly, “where those roses came from.” (You see, miss, a posy was more of an event in this simple life than in yours, bouqueted and basketed as it is.) “I have sometimes thought, do you know, it was—” Pauline stopped suddenly and blushed.
“Raoul, of course,” said André quietly.
“No,” said Pauline briefly, and blushed again.
“Not the mousquetaire?” said André in affected amazement.
“Yes, yes,” said Pauline, still very rosy—“that horrid mousquetaire. I’m sure,” she added with a toss of her pretty head, “he had impudence enough for anything.”