He
knew, at all events, that he could hold his own amid these
adventurers, many of whom had risen from the ranks; while others,
from remote northern States, had birth but no manners at all. He
was easy and gay, carrying lightly that subtle air of distinction
which is vouchsafed to many Poles.
"Here to-day, Mademoiselle, and gone to-morrow," he said. "All
these eager soldiers. And who can tell which of us may return?"
If he had expected Mathilde to flinch at this reminder of his
calling, he was disappointed. Her eyes were hard and bright. She
had had so few chances of moving amidst this splendour, of seeing
close at hand the greatness which Napoleon shed around him as the
sun its rays. She was carried away by the spirit of the age.
Anything was better, she felt, than obscurity.
"And who can tell," whispered de Casimir with a careless and
confident laugh, "which of us shall come back rich and great?"
This brought the glance from her dark eyes for which his own lay
waiting. She was certainly beautiful, and wore the difficult dress
of that day with assurance and grace. She possessed something which
the German ladies about her lacked; something which many suddenly
lack when a Frenchwoman is near.
His manner, half respectful, half triumphant, betrayed an
understanding to which he did not refer in words. She had bestowed
some favour upon him--had acceded to some request. He hoped for
more. He had overstepped some barrier.
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