"I hope not; I do not know how," answered Cecil. "It is impossible
to follow the windings of her wayward caprices. A child--a soldier--a
dancer--a brigand--a spoiled beauty--a mischievous gamin--how is one to
treat such a little fagot of opposites?"
The others smiled.
"Ah! you do not know the Little One yet. She is worth a study. I painted
her years ago--'La Vivandiere a Sept Ans.' There was not a picture in
the Salon that winter that was sought like it. I had traveled in Algeria
then; I had not entered the army. The first thing I saw of Cigarette was
this: She was seven years old; she had been beaten black and blue; she
had had two of her tiny teeth knocked out. The men were furious--she was
a pet with them; and she would not say who had done it, though she knew
twenty swords would have beaten him flat as a fritter if she had given
his name. I got her to sit to me some days after. I pleased her with
her own picture. I asked her to tell me why she would not say who had
ill-treated her. She put her head on one side like a robin, and told me,
in a whisper: 'It was one of my comrades--because I would not steal
for him. I would not have the army know--it would demoralize them. If a
French soldier ever does a cowardly thing, another French soldier must
not betray it.' That was Cigarette--at seven years. The esprit de corps
was stronger than her own wrongs. What do you say to that nature?"
"That is superb!--that it might be molded to anything.
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