“I shall elect you my cavaliere servente,” said she, after I had twice nervously risen to take my leave within the first half hour, and twice been desired to remain a little longer.  “Will you accept the office?”

I thought it the greatest privilege under heaven.  Perhaps I said so.

“The duties of the situation are onerous,” added she, “and I ought not to accept your allegiance without setting them before you.  In the first place, you will have to bring me every new novel of George Sand, Flaubert, or About, on the day of publication.”

“I will move heaven and earth to get them the day before, if that be all!” I exclaimed.

Madame de Marignan nodded approvingly, and went on telling off my duties, one by one, upon her pretty fingers.

“You will have to accompany me to the Opera at least twice a week, on which occasions you will bring me a bouquet—­camellias being my favorite flowers.”

“Were they the flowers that bloom but once in a century,” said I, with more enthusiasm than sense, “they should be yours!”

Madame de Marignan smiled and nodded again.

“When I drive in the Bois, you will sometimes take a seat in my carriage, and sometimes ride beside it, like an attentive cavalier.”

I was just about to avow that I had no horse, when I remembered that I could borrow Dalrymple’s, or hire one, if necessary; so I checked myself, and bowed.

“When I go to an exhibition,” said Madame de Marignan, “it will be your business to look out the pictures in the catalogue—­when I walk, you will carry my parasol—­when I go into a shop, you will take care of my dog—­when I embroider, you will wind off my silks, and look for my scissors—­when I want amusement, you must make me laugh—­and when I am sleepy, you must read to me.  In short, my cavaliere servente must be my shadow.”

“Then, like your shadow, Madame,” said I, “his place is ever at your feet, and that is all I desire!”

Madame de Marignan laughed outright, and showed the loveliest little double row of pearls in all the world.

“Admirable!” said she.  “Quite an elegant compliment, and worthy of an accomplished lady-killer! Allons! you are a promising scholar.”

“In all that I have dared to say, Madame, I am, at least, sincere,” I added, abashed by the kind of praise.

“Sincere?  Of course you are sincere.  Who ever doubted it?  Nay, to blush like that is enough to spoil the finest compliment in the world.  There—­it is three o’clock, and at half-past I have an engagement, for which I must now make my toilette.  Come to-morrow evening to my box at the Italiens, and so adieu.  Stay—­being my cavaliere, I permit you, at parting, to kiss my hand.”

Trembling, breathless, scarcely daring to touch it with mine, I lifted the soft little hand to my lips, stammered something which was, no doubt, sufficiently foolish, and hurried away, as if I were treading on air and breathing sunshine.