"
The Colonel performed this service with alacrity. He honestly
admired the young fellow who so seldom lost his temper. Besides,
he had a sneaking idea that the lad was being unjustly accused.
Maurice got up and stretched himself. He rubbed his wrists, then
sat down and waited for the comedy to proceed.
"So you confess," said Madame, "that you sold the consols to the
archbishop?"
"I, confess?" Maurice screwed up his lips and began to whistle
softly:
"Voici le sabre de mon Pere."
"You deny, then?" Madame was fast losing patience, a grave
mistake when one is dealing with a banterer.
Maurice changed the tune:
"J'aime les militaires, Leur uniforme coquet, Leur moustache et
leur plumet--"
"Answer!" with a stamp of the foot.
"Je sais ce que je voudrais, Je voudrais etre cantiniere!" . . .
"Monsieur," said the pretty countess, after a furtive glance at
Madame's stormy eyes, "do you deny?"
The whistle ceased. "Madame, to you I shall say that I neither
deny nor affirm. The affair is altogether too ridiculous to
treat seriously. I have nothing to say." The whistle picked up
the thread again.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416