She admired the acumen that had seized the perfect opportunity to thank her for the violets, the badge of the Great Emperor. “My hives shall not be empty of bees--or honey,” she said, alluding to the imperial bees, and she touched his arm in a pretty, gracious fashion. “Madame--ah, madame!” he replied, and his eyes grew moist. She bade the servant admit Lagroin and Parpon. They bowed profoundly, first to Valmond, and afterwards to Madame Chalice. She saw the point, and it amused her. She read in the old man’s eye the soldier’s contempt for women, together with his new-born reverence and love for Valmond. Lagroin was still dressed in the uniform of the Old Guard, and wore on his breast the sacred ribbon which Valmond had given him the day before. “Well, General?” said Valmond. “Sire,” said the old man, “they mock us in the streets. Come to the window, sire.” The “sire,” fell on the ears of Madame Chalice like a mot in a play; but Valmond, living up to his part, was grave and solicitous. He walked to the window, and the old man said: “Sire, do you not hear a drum?” A faint rat-tat came up the road. Valmond bowed. “Sire,” the old man continued, “I would not act till I had your orders.” “Whence comes the mockery?” Valmond asked quietly. The other shook his head. “Sire, I do not know. But I remember of such a thing happening to the Emperor. It was in the garden of the Tuileries, and twenty-four battalions of the Old Guard filed past our great chief. Some fool sent out a gamin dressed in regimentals in front of one of the bands, and then--” “Enough, General,” said Valmond; “I understand. I will go down into the village--eh, monsieur?” he added, turning to Parpon with impressive consideration. “Sire, there is one behind these mockers,” answered the little man in a low voice. Valmond turned towards Madame Chalice. “I know my enemy, madame,” he said. “Your enemy is not here,” she rejoined kindly. He stooped over her hand, and bowed Lagroin and Parpon to the door. “Madame,” he said, “I thank you. Will you accept a souvenir of him whom we both love, martyr and friend of France?” He drew from his breast a small painting of Napoleon, on ivory, and handed it to her. “It was the work of David,” he continued. “You will find it well authenticated. Look upon the back of it.” She looked, and her heart beat a little faster. “This was done when he was alive?” she said. “For the King of Rome,” he answered. “Adieu, madame. Again I thank you, for our cause as for myself.”