Cigarette was charming now--a fairy-story set into living motion--a
fantastic little firework out of an extravaganza, with the impudence
of a boy-harlequin and the witching kitten-hood of a girl's beauty.
But when this youth that made it all fair should have passed (and youth
passes soon when thus adrift on the world), when there should be left
in its stead only shamelessness, hardihood, vice, weariness--those who
found the prettiest jest in her now would be the first to cast aside,
with an oath, the charred, wrecked rocket-stick of a life from which no
golden, careless stream of many-colored fires of coquette caprices would
rise and enchant them then.
"Who is it that sent these?" asked Leon Ramon, later on, as his hands
still wandered among the flowers; for the moment he was at peace; the
ice and the hours of quietude had calmed him.
Cecil told him again.
"What does Cigarette know of her?" he pursued.
"Nothing, except, I believe, she knew that Mme. Corona accepted my
chess-carvings."
"Ah! I thought the Little One was jealous, Victor."
"Jealous? Pshaw! Of whom?"
"Of anyone you admire--especially of this grande dame."
"Absurd!" said Cecil, with a sense of annoyance. "Cigarette is far too
bold a little trooper to have any thoughts of those follies; and as for
this grande dame, as you call her, I shall, in every likelihood, never
see her again--unless when the word is given to 'Carry Swords' or
'Lances' at the General's Salute, where she reins her horse beside M.
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