“Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?”
“It is a face to obey,” I answered, with some heat, and with more truth than I knew.
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love—you know not how. You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me. You have not sem risson. Monsieur,” he continued, leaning forward and putting his hand on my knee, “I think she love me—I am not sure. I should not be surprise'. But Monsieur le Marquis, her father, he trit me ver' bad. Monsieur le Marquis is guillotine' now, I mus' not spik evil of him, but he marry her to one ol' garçon, Le Vicomte d'Ivry-le-Tour.”
“So Mademoiselle is married,” I said after a pause.
“Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her feet jus' the sem. I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the château of Monsieur le Prince de Ligne in Flander'. After that they go I know not where. They are exile',—los' to me.” He sighed, and held out the miniature to me. “Monsieur, I esk you favor. Will you be as kin' and keep it for me again?”
I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse. Suffice it to say that I took it. And Auguste's face lighted up.
“I am a thousan' times gret'ful,” he cried; and added, as though with an afterthought, “Monsieur, would you be so kin' as to borrow me fif' dollars?”