"Petite Reine," he murmured gently, striving vainly for his old
lightness, "Petite Reine, how some man will love you one day! Thank you
from my heart, my little innocent friend."
Her face flushed with gladness; she smiled with all a child's unshadowed
joy.
"Ah! then you will take it! and if you want more only let me ask them
for it; papa and Philip never refuse me anything!"
His hand wandered gently over the shower of her hair, as he put back the
Napoleons that he had gathered up into her azure bonbonniere.
"Petite Reine, you are a little angel; but I cannot take your money, my
child, and you must ask for none for my sake from your father or from
Rock. Do not look so grieved, little one; I love you none the less
because I refuse it."
Petite Reine's face was very pale and grave; a delicate face, in its
miniature feminine childhood almost absurdly like the Seraph's; her eyes
were full of plaintive wonder and of pathetic reproach.
"Ah!" she said, drooping her head with a sigh; "it is no good to you
because it is such a little; do let me ask for more!"
He smiled, but the smile was very weary.
"No, dear, you must not ask for more; I have been very foolish, my
little friend, and I must take the fruits of my folly; all men must.
I can accept no one's money, not even yours; when you are older and
remember this, you will know why. But I do not thank you the less from
my heart."
She looked at him, pained and wistful.
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