I assure
you, monsieur, I am not of mean birth."
"You are an orphan?" said Sebastian curtly.
"Yes."
"Of the . . . Terror?"
"Yes; I--well, one does not make much of one's parentage in these
rough times--monsieur."
"Your father's name was Charles--like your own?"
"Yes."
"The second son?"
"Yes, monsieur. Did you know him?"
"One remembers a name here and there," answered Sebastian, in his
stiff manner, looking straight in front of him.
"There was a tone in your voice--," began Charles, and, again
perceiving that he was on a false scent, broke off abruptly. "If
love can make mademoiselle happy--," he said; and a gesture of his
right hand seemed to indicate that his passion was beyond the
measure of words.
So Charles Darragon was permitted to pay his addresses to Desiree in
the somewhat formal manner of a day which, upon careful
consideration, will be found to have been no more foolish than the
present. He made no inquiries respecting Desiree's parentage. It
was Desiree he wanted, and that was all. They understood the arts
of love and war in the great days of the Empire.
The rest was easy enough, and the gods were kind. Charles had even
succeeded in getting a month's leave of absence. They were to spend
their honeymoon at Zoppot, a little fishing-village hidden in the
pines by the Baltic shore, only eight miles from Dantzig, where the
Vistula loses itself at last in the salt water.
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