“Ah, Missr Wentwort’,” said the old man, in hoarse tones, which were yet soft and facile, “you bring me back ever so far—you look so gay! You look as I sall feel wis my young blood tirty, tirty-five years ago. We marsh zen wis ze great Nap-oleon dis mont’, all so proud, so gallant, for zat dam Waterloo. Hah! I feel zen jus’ like you. So young—so gay! Wis my littel flower like zat at my bouton—ze flower zat ze pretty girl haf give me. Jus’ so.”
He touched a nosegay of violets in the young man’s buttonhole with the hilt of the foil as he spoke. Wentworth laughed lightly, taking out the nosegay.
“Jupiter! Bagasse,” he cried, “you shall have the flowers for the sake of the memory. What are you grinning at, Fernando!” This to Witherlee, whose cynical grin changed into a cool lift of the eyebrows. “Now, Bagasse,” resumed Wentworth, “I’ll give them to you since they remind you of old times. Here, let me fix them in your jacket. There now—guard them well against every foil. Violets, you know, Monsieur Bagasse! Worn in remembrance of Corporal Violet—the great little corporal!”
The old man bowed low, with the violets on his breast. With the rush of thrilling souvenirs which the pet name of the beloved Emperor revived, a dark glow came to his rugged visage, and the one bright eye grew suddenly dim, leaving the face blind. Wentworth saw that he was touched, and with a quick regret that he had brought a tear to the old heart, turned away, humming an air.
“But where’s Harrington, I wonder?” he burst out, whirling around again. “He said he’d be here before me.”
“He will come pretty soon, I zink, Missr Wentwort’,” replied Monsieur Bagasse. “You haf seen him dis morning?”
“Oh, yes. I found him, as usual, pegging away at the books, and we walked out together. Afterward we went with him, Witherlee and I, to his room, and then started out again to come here. He left us on the way, saying he’d be here before us, and I left Witherlee on the way, saying I’d be here before him. Two promises of pie-crust, those. I’ll bet a denier, Fernando, that dog has something to do with his absence,” and the young artist laughed.
“No doubt,” returned Witherlee, smoking, with a sarcastic smile. “Perhaps he’s commencing his education—developing, on Kant’s principle, all the perfection of which the doggish nature is capable.”
“Dog?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse, curiously.
“Oh, it’s a dog we passed this morning,” explained Wentworth; “a miserable old vagabond white cur, with just about life enough in him to crawl. Some Irish and negro boys were lugging the poor old devil along by the ears and tail, and whacking him with sticks, as we came along, and Harrington, of course, stopped to order them off.”