Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/384

 "Where they did not give you such ale as that, I'll be bound," answered Sir George, motioning Slap-Jack to fill for the guest, a hospitable rite performed by the old privateer's-man with extreme goodwill, and a solemn wink of approval, as he placed the beaker at his hand. "What! You have not learned to drink our vin ordinaire yet? And now, I remember, you were always averse to heavy potations. Here, fill him a bumper of claret, some of you! Taste that, my friend. I don't think we ever drank better in the 'Musketeers.' Welcome to Hamilton Hill, old comrade. My lady will drink to your health too, before she hears the latest Paris news. She has not forgotten her country; and as for me, why, you know our old principle, Mousquetaire avant tout!"

Sir George emptied his glass, and Cerise, bowing courteously, touched hers with her lips. Florian found himself at once, so to speak "enfant de la maison," and recovered his presence of mind accordingly.

He addressed himself, however, chiefly to his host. "You forget," said he, "that I have been living in the seclusion of a cloister. Though I have carried a sword and kept my watch under your command, and spent almost the happiest days of my life in your company, I was a priest before I was a Musketeer, and a priest I must always remain. Nevertheless, even at St. Omer, we are not utterly severed from the world and its vanities; and though we do not participate in them, we hear them freely canvassed. The first news, of course, for madame (pardon! I must learn to call you by your English name—for Lady Hamilton), regards the despotism of King Chiffon. The farthingale is worn more oval; diamond buckles are gone out; it is bad taste just now to carry a fan anywhere except to church."

In spite of his agitation he adopted a light tone of jest befitting the subject—for was he not a Jesuit?—and stole a look at Cerise while he spoke. Many a time had he dreamt of a lovely girl blooming into womanhood, in the Convent of our Lady of Succour. Ever since the tumult of her hasty wedding, after the escape from Cash-a-crou, he had been haunted by a pale, sweet, agitated face, on which he had invoked a blessing at the altar from the depths of