“They are not due to me,” answered Cecil hurriedly.  “Mme. la Princess Corona sends them to you.  She has sent great gifts to the hospital—­wines, fruits, a profusion of flowers, such as those.  Through her, these miserable chambers will bloom for a while like a garden; and the best wines of Europe will slake your thirst in lieu of that miserable tisane.”

“It is very kind,” murmured Leon Ramon languidly; life was too feeble in him to leave him vivid pleasures in aught.  “But I am ungrateful.  La Cigarette here—­she has been so good, so tender, so pitiful.  For once I have almost not missed you!”

Cigarette, thus alluded to, sprang to her feet with her head tossed back, and all her cynicism back again; a hot color was on her cheeks, the light had passed from her face, she struck her white teeth together.  She had thought “Bel-a-faire-peur” chained to his regiment in the field of maneuver, or she would never have come thither to tend his friend.  She had felt happy in her self-sacrifice; she had grown into a gentle, pensive, merciful mood, singing here by the side of the dying soldier, and now the first thing she heard was of the charities of Mme. la Princesse!

That was all her reward!  Cigarette received the recompense that usually comes to generous natures which have strung themselves to some self-surrender that costs them dear.

Cecil looked at her surprised, and smiled.

“Ma belle, is it you?  That is, indeed, good.  You were the good angel of my life the other night, and to-day come to bring consolation to my friend—­”

“Good angel!  Chut, M. Victor!  One does not know those mots sucres in Algiers.  There is nothing of the angel about me, I hope.  Your friend, too!  Do you think I have never been used to taking care of my comrades in hospital before you played the sick-nurse here?”

She spoke with all her brusque petulance in arms again; she hated that he should imagine she had sacrificed her fete-day to Leon Ramon, because the artist-trooper was dear to him; she hated him to suppose that she had waited there all the hours through on the chance that he would find her at her post, and admire her for her charity.  Cigarette was far too proud and disdainful a young soldier to seek either his presence or his praise.

He smiled again; he did not understand the caprices of her changeful moods, and he did not feel that interest in her which would have made him divine the threads of their vagaries.

“I did not think to offend you, my little one,” he said gently.  “I meant only to thank you for your goodness to Ramon in my absence.”

Cigarette shrugged her shoulders.

“There was no goodness, and there need be no thanks.  Ask Pere Matou how often I have sat with him hours through.”

“But on a fete-day!  And you who love pleasure, and grace it so well—­”

“Ouf!  I have had so much of it,” said the little one contemptuously.  “It is so tame to me.  Clouds of dust, scurry of horses, fanfare of trumpets, thunder of drums, and all for nothing!  Bah!  I have been in a dozen battles—­I—­and I am not likely to care much for a sham fight.”