“I love her so well,” he answered, “that I only ask to pass my life in contributing to her happiness. Mine has been a rude wild career, in many scenes and many countries. I have lived _in_ society and _out of_ society, afloat and ashore, at bivouac fires and Court receptions, yet I have always carried the portrait of that one gentle loving face printed on my heart.” “I compliment you on your constancy,” she answered, rather bitterly. “Such gallants have been very rare of late both at the old and new Courts. You must have seen other women too, as amiable, as beautiful, who could have loved you perhaps as well.” Something like a sigh escaped her with the concluding sentence, but there is no egotist like a happy lover, and he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to perceive it. Smiling in his companion’s face, with the old honest expression that reminded her of what he had been as a boy, he took her hand and kissed it affectionately. “Madame,” said he, “shall I make you a frank avowal? Ever since I was a wild page at Versailles, and you were so kind to me, I have believed in Madame de Montmirail as my ideal of all that woman should be, and perhaps might never have loved Cerise so well had she not resembled her mother.” The Marquise was not without plenty of self-command, but she wanted it all now. Under pretence of adjusting her glove, she snatched away the hand he held, that he might not feel it tremble, and forced herself to laugh while she replied lightly— “You are complimentary, monsieur, but your compliments are somewhat out of date. An _old_ woman, you know, does not like to be reminded of her age, and you were, yes, I honestly confess you were, a dear, mischievous, good-looking, good-for-nothing boy in that far-off time so long ago. But all this is nothing to the purpose. Let us send ashore at once to the priest. The ceremony may take place at noon, and I can give the young couple my blessing before wishing them good-bye.” “How, madame?” replied he, astonished. “You will surely accompany us? You will return with us to Europe? You will never trust yourself amongst these savages again, after once escaping out of their hands?” “I shall be safe enough when the garrison has crossed the mountain,” she answered, “and that must be in a few hours, for they are probably even now on the march. Till then I will take refuge with the Jesuits on their plantation at Maria-Galante. I do not think all my people can have rebelled. Some of them will escort me faithfully as far as that. No, monsieur, the La Fiertés have never been accustomed to abandon a post of danger, and I shall not leave the island until this rising has been completely put down.”