"He is thinking of the dead man, not of me," thought Cigarette; and the
first taint of bitterness entered into her cup of joy and triumph, as
such bitterness enters into most cups that are drunk by human lips. A
whole army was thinking of her, and of her alone; and there was a
void in her heart, a thorn in her crown, because one among that mighty
mass--one only--gave her presence little heed, but thought rather of a
lonely tomb among the desolation of the plains.
But she had scarce time even for that flash of pain to quiver in
impotent impatience through her. The trumpets sounded, the salvoes
of artillery pealed out, the lances and the swords were carried up in
salute; on the ground rode the Marshal of France, who represented the
imperial will and presence, surrounded by his staff, by generals of
division and brigade, by officers of rank, and by some few civilian
riders. An aid galloped up to her where she stood with the corps of her
Spahis and gave her his orders. The Little One nodded carelessly, and
touched Etoile-Filante with the prick of the spur. Like lightning the
animal bounded forth from the ranks, rearing and plunging, and swerving
from side to side, while his rider, with exquisite grace and address,
kept her seat like the little semi-Arab that she was, and with a
thousand curves and bounds cantered down the line of the gathered
troops, with the west wind blowing from the far-distant sea, and fanning
her bright cheeks till they wore the soft, scarlet flush of the glowing
japonica flower.
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