Cecil was silent.  He would not cross the words of the wounded man by saying what might bring a train of less pleasant thoughts—­saying what, in truth, was in his mind, that the future which he had meant for the little Friend of the Flag was not that of any glorious death by combat, but that of a life (unless no bullet early cut its silver cord in twain) when youth should have fled, and have carried forever with it her numberless graces, and left in its stead that ribaldry-stained, drink-defiled, hardened, battered, joyless, cruel, terrible thing which is unsightly and repugnant to even the lowest among men; which is as the lees of the drunk wine, as the ashes of the burned-out fires, as the discord of the broken and earth-clogged lyre.

Cigarette was charming now—­a fairy-story set into living motion—­a fantastic little firework out of an extravaganza, with the impudence of a boy-harlequin and the witching kitten-hood of a girl’s beauty.  But when this youth that made it all fair should have passed (and youth passes soon when thus adrift on the world), when there should be left in its stead only shamelessness, hardihood, vice, weariness—­those who found the prettiest jest in her now would be the first to cast aside, with an oath, the charred, wrecked rocket-stick of a life from which no golden, careless stream of many-colored fires of coquette caprices would rise and enchant them then.

“Who is it that sent these?” asked Leon Ramon, later on, as his hands still wandered among the flowers; for the moment he was at peace; the ice and the hours of quietude had calmed him.

Cecil told him again.

“What does Cigarette know of her?” he pursued.

“Nothing, except, I believe, she knew that Mme. Corona accepted my chess-carvings.”

“Ah!  I thought the Little One was jealous, Victor.”

“Jealous?  Pshaw!  Of whom?”

“Of anyone you admire—­especially of this grande dame.”

“Absurd!” said Cecil, with a sense of annoyance.  “Cigarette is far too bold a little trooper to have any thoughts of those follies; and as for this grande dame, as you call her, I shall, in every likelihood, never see her again—­unless when the word is given to ‘Carry Swords’ or ‘Lances’ at the General’s Salute, where she reins her horse beside M. le Marechal’s at a review, as I have done this morning.”

The keen ear of the sick man caught the inflection of an impatience, of a mortification, in the tone that the speaker himself was unconscious of.  He guessed the truth—­that Cecil had never felt more restless under the shadow of the Eagles than he had done when he had carried his sword up in the salute as he passed with his regiment the flagstaff where the aristocracy of Algiers had been gathered about the Marshal and his staff, and the azure eyes of Mme. la Princesse had glanced carelessly and critically over the long line of gray horses of those Chasseurs d’Afrique among whom he rode a bas-officier.