“A fine fellow,” continued the Chef d’Escadron to whom he had appealed.  “He behaved magnificently the other day at Zaraila; he must be distinguished for it.  He is just sent on a perilous errand, but though so quiet he is a croc-mitaine, and woe to the Arabs who slay him!  Are you acquainted with him?”

“Not in the least.  But I wished to hear all I could of him.  I have been told he seems above his present position.  Is it so?”

“Likely enough, monsieur; he seems a gentleman.  But then we have many gentlemen in the ranks, and we can make no difference for that.  Cigarette can tell you more of him; she used to complain that he bowed like a Court chamberlain.”

“Oh, ha!—­I did!” cried Cigarette, stung into instant irony because pained and irritated by being appealed to on the subject.  “And of course, when so many of his officers have the manners of Pyrenean bears, it is a little awkward for him to bring us the manner of a Palace!”

Which effectually chastised the Chef d’Escadron, who was one of those who had a ton of the roughest manners, and piqued himself on his powers of fence much more than on his habits of delicacy.

“Has this Victor any history?” asked the English Duke.

“He has written one with his sword; a fine one,” said Cigarette curtly.  “We are not given here to care much about any other.”

“Quite right; I asked because a friend of mine who had seen his carvings wished to serve him, if it were possible; and—­”

“Ho!  That is Milady, is suppose!” Cigarette’s eyes flashed fire instantly, in wrath and suspicion.  “What did she tell you about him?”

“I am ignorant of whom you speak?” he answered, with something of surprise and annoyance.

“Are you?” said Cigarette, in derision.  “I doubt that.  Of whom should I speak but of her?  Bah?  She insulted him, she offered him gold, she sent my men the spoils of her table, as if they were paupers, and he thinks it all divine because it is done by Mme. la Princesse Corona d’Amague!  Bah! when he was delirious, the other night, he could babble of nothing but of her—­of her—­of her!”

The jealous, fiery impatience in her vanquished every other thought; she was a child in much, she was untutored in all; she had no thought that by the scornful vituperation of “Milady” she could either harm Cecil or betray herself.  But she was amazed to see the English guest change color with a haughty anger that he strove to subdue as he half rose and answered her with an accent in his voice that reminded her—­she knew not why—­of Bel-a-faire-peur and of Marquise.

“Mme. la Princess Corona d’Amague is my sister; why do you venture to couple the name of this Chasseur with hers?”

Cigarette sprang to her feet, vivacious, imperious, reckless, dared to anything by the mere fact of being publicly arraigned.

“Pardieu!  Is it insult to couple the silver pheasant with the Eagles of France?—­a pretty idea, truly!  So she is your sister, is she?  Milady?  Well, then, tell her from me to think twice before she outrages a soldier with ‘patronage’; and tell her, too, that had I been he I would have ground my ivory toys into powder before I would have let them become the playthings of a grande dame who tendered me gold for them!”