Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/117

 others, it is not for me to explain. Perhaps she would not willingly abdicate a sovereignty that became year by year more precious and more precarious. Perhaps she loved a captive, as a cat loves a mouse, allowing it so much liberty as shall keep it just within reach of the cruel velvet paw. Perhaps she shrunk from any decided step that would force her own heart to confess it was interested elsewhere. A woman's motives may be countless as the waves on the shore, her intention fathomless as mid-ocean by the deep-*sea lead.

Hearing the march of her auxiliaries, she made light of an engagement at closer quarters now. Looking affectionately in the Prince-Marshal's face, she drew her chair a little nearer, and observed in a low voice—

"I am pretty sure to approve of any plan, my Prince, that conduces to your comfort—to your welfare, nay"—for she heard the rustle of her daughter's dress, and the lock of the door move—"to your happiness!"

The tone and accompanying glance were irresistible. Any male creature must have fallen a victim on the spot. The Prince-Marshal, sitting opposite the door, dropped his hat, sprang from his chair a yard at a bound, made a pounce at the white hand of the Marquise, and before he could grasp it, stopped midway as if turned to stone, his mouth open, his frame rigid, his very moustaches stiffening, and his eyes staring blankly at the figure of Cerise in the door-*way, who, although a good deal discomposed, for she thought to find mamma alone, rose, or rather sank, to the occasion, and bestowed on him the lowest, the most voluminous, and the longest reverence that was ever practised for months together at their pension by the best brought-up young ladies in France. The Prince-Marshal was too good a soldier to neglect such an opportunity for retreat, and retired in good order, flattering himself that though he had suffered severely, it might still be considered a drawn battle with the Marquise.

When he had made his bow with a profusion of compliments to the fresh and beautiful Mademoiselle, whom he wished at a worse place than back in her convent, mother and daughter sat down to spend the morning together.

Contrary to custom, the pair were silent and preoccupied;