This is the way, messieurs, that the ungrateful fair for whom we run all risks characterize our devotion.
“No,” said André gently, “it was not the mousquetaire.”
The girl looked up quickly, a sudden light in her eyes.
“Dear André!” she said again, “you are very good to me.”
They were silent awhile, and then the poet, taking the girl’s hand, said earnestly:
“Listen to me, Pauline. There is a condition to my gift. It is that if at the last moment you should change your mind in regard to—to—” he hesitated—“to what we once spoke of, you will send me back this rose,[[167]] and I will find a way to save you.”
Pauline made no answer; but she no longer scolded, and André was satisfied that she had agreed. We shall see if he was right.
V.
On the night before Pauline’s wedding-day a merry and noisy company of mousquetaires were gathered in the Café Aux Fers Croisés. Some were playing billiards, others baccarat; all were drinking, and nearly all were singing and shouting at the top of their lungs. Only our old friend, the Chevalier d’Aubuisson, sat apart by himself, very woebegone and silent.
A comrade, drawing near, slapped him on the shoulder and said boisterously: