"
"But he neither smokes, nor swears, nor talks loud," said I, persisting in
my opinion.
My father smiled, and pinched my ear.
"Nay, little one," said he, "Monsieur Maurice is not like thy father--a
rough German Dragoon risen from the ranks. He is a gentleman, and a
Frenchman; and he hath all the polish of what the Frenchman calls the
_vieille ecole_. And there again he puzzles me with his court-manners
and his powdered hair! He's no Bonapartist, I'll be sworn--yet if he be o'
the King's side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena, and
Louis the Eighteenth come to his own again?"
"But he _is_ a Bonapartist, father," said I, "for he carries the
Emperor's portrait on his snuff-box."
My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive of
astonishment.
"He showed thee his snuff-box!" exclaimed he.
"Ay--and told me it was the Emperor's own gift."
"Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?"
"Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told me I
should go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he kissed me
when he said good-bye; and--and I like Monsieur Maurice very much, father,
and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him here in prison!"
My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long grey
moustache.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26