Yet even as she set the king
among his mimic forces, the very carvings themselves served to retain
their artist in her memory.
There was about them an indescribable elegance, an exceeding grace and
beauty, which spoke of a knowledge of art and of refinement of taste
far beyond those of a mere military amateur in the one who had produced
them.
"What could bring a man of that talent, with that address, into the
ranks?" she mused. "Persons of good family, of once fine position, come
here, they say, and live and die unrecognized under the Imperial flag.
It is usually some dishonor that drives them out of their own worlds;
it may be so with him. Yet he does not look like one whom shame has
touched; he is proud still--prouder than he knows. More likely it is the
old, old story--a high name and a narrow fortune--the ruin of thousands!
He is French, I suppose; a French aristocrat who has played au roi
depouille, most probably, and buried himself and his history forever
beneath those two names that tell one nothing--Louis Victor. Well, it
is no matter of mine. Very possibly he is a mere adventurer with a good
manner. This army here is a pot-pourri, they say, of all the varied
scoundrelisms of Europe!"
She left the chess-table and went onward to the dressing and bath and
bed chambers, which opened in one suite from her boudoir, and resigned
herself to the hands of her attendants for her dinner toilet.
The Moslem had said aright of her beauty; and now, as her splendid hair
was unloosened and gathered up afresh with a crescent-shaped comb of
gold that was not brighter than the tresses themselves, the brilliant,
haughty, thoughtful face was of a truth, as he had said, the fairest
that had ever come from the Frankish shores to the hot African
sea-board.
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