'But their tears will only render brighter the laurels which bedeck the brows of the survivors. The number who have fallen saddens, doubtless, our glory and triumph, but,' she added, with her fine eyes flashing, 'they fell for France, bequeathing victory to her and to their comrades. Is it not so, my dear M. Blane?' A burst of applause from her admirers prevented me from replying; and then she asked, in a low voice-- 'Is the wound of De Toneins severe?' 'Rather, mademoiselle; yet I know of a pain greater than even a musket-shot can inflict.' 'Indeed; what is it, pray?' 'To feign indifference where we feel but--love,' said I, with an air so gallant and tender that it won me an approving smile from Marion and a frown from M. de Brissac, of which mark of displeasure I was resolved to be quite oblivious; for what the deuce was M. de Brissac to me? 'And you feel this often, M. Blane?' she asked, with an inexplicable glance, in which drollery predominated. 'Nay, mademoiselle, I never felt it until now,' I replied, sinking my voice, as an irresistible spirit of gallantry urged me on; 'I am unused to the society of one so beautiful; so pray, mademoiselle, excuse my diffidence.' 'Gentlemen are ever telling me that I am beautiful,' said Marion, pettishly; 'I would rather be beloved.' Fortunately--for there was a malevolent gleam in the eyes of De Brissac--the servants appeared with a cold collation, served up in silver and Bohemian crystal of crimson flowered with gold. We had wines of the most expensive description to overflowing, and a hundred gay anecdotes and witty remarks were given on all sides; for the boudoir of Marion de l'Orme was not a place to repress the liveliest sallies of the wits and sparks who hovered about her, and who courted her smiles. I remember that De Brissac made us all laugh by the pointed and satirical manner in which he related a droll story of the Bishop of Auvergne, who was sorely tried and tempted by the devil, who met him in his cathedral church at night in the form of a handsome woman with very scanty garments. Then Marion assumed her guitar, and sang to us first an old ballad of the Palatines of Champagne; and then a Spanish romance, in which a lover declared that once when thinking of his mistress he fell into a pond, where _the heat of his passion_ had such an effect on the water, that it bubbled up and boiled all the fish--the trout, perch, and carp--so that his friends who came to hook him out, forgot all about him in the delicious repast afforded them by the ready-cooked spoil of the waters. These songs, stories, and the generous wine put us all in excellent humour. 'Everything here is princely,' said I to a grave-looking cavalier, who wore the Grand Cross of Malta. 'Yes,' he replied with a sardonic grin; 'for the love of Mademoiselle is a commodity that rises in value according to the season in Paris, and the rank of her adorers.'