'Mademoiselle de Lorraine, you are no longer Nicola, the poor, fugitive soubrette; and in a mere worldly point of view, you are far, far above me; though I am a gentleman, whose fathers for six hundred years have borne their crest in battle on their helmets; yet what have I, an exile, a soldier of fortune, to offer worthy even a smile from the daughter of Charles IV., the victor of Prague, and the hero of Poligni?' 'My poor Arthur! you have that which is better than all the crowns of Europe--a faithful and true heart; I find that I must speak for you as well as for myself. Marie Louise cannot lose that heart, which she won as Nicola. Love has a language that cannot be expressed by words alone; thus your tenderness and diffidence, even with the poor soubrette, were the surest indication of the depth of yours.' 'Oh, yes!' said I, clasping my hands; 'my love is equalled only by your beauty and your merit.' 'Now,' she exclaimed, almost playfully, 'you must not be imitating Ronsard.' 'I am in agony, and you speak to me in jest.' 'And so you would not give one golden hair of Nicola's head for Louise of Lorraine, with all her rank and beauty? Oh, poor M. Blane, what say you now?' 'Jesting yet! I say that I think so still, and yet--my heart, God help me, feels broken.' 'Come--come--allons!' said she, waving her pretty white hand; 'be a man, Arthur; what say you to join my father, and fight under the standard of the Emperor?' 'By the side of Pappenheim and De Bitche?' 'No.' 'What then? 'By the side of Vaudemont and Duke Charles. In France, your Scottish Hamiltons are Dukes of Chatelherault in Poitou; your Forbeses are Lords of La Faye; your Douglases are Dukes of Touraine and Lords of Longoville; your Stuarts are Lords of Aubigne, Governors of Avignon, and Dukes of Calabria. Why may not you become a count or prince in our duchy of Lorraine?' 'Impossible!' 'Why impossible?' 'Because the days of Lorraine as a duchy are doomed, and because I am a soldier of France. Tempt me not, for my honour--' 'Will be dear to me as my own; so I pray you to excuse me,' said she, while her tears fell fast, 'To-night, Louise, I go, never to return; but my soul I give to God--my sword to France--my heart to you.' 'You are going--' she faltered. 'Yes.' 'Whither?' 'To the French camp, before Elsace-Zaberne.' 'Alas!' 'Your rank forbids me even to hope,' said I. 'Then love will soon die.' 'Nay, nay! give me leave to seek a field where I may fall, if I cannot forget you. I leave this to-night, and take the road by Sarrebourg and Phalsbourg towards Alsace. Oh, Marie Louise! in memory of the love I have vowed and you have accepted, think of me sometimes; and in memory of the pleasant days we have passed--of all I hoped, and all that never can be--give me one kind kiss before I leave you for ever!'