Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 3).djvu/261

 .—Well, then, tell me—

.—No. Remember, you said I must go back to mamma. So good-bye. (Pauses, and then returns, whispers.) Of course, you have not mentioned this to anyone?

.—(pretending ignorance, whispers).—Mentioned what?

.—(whispers).—Hush! Your discovery.

.—Shh! No.

.—And of course you won't? Mamma mustn't know it, for the world. It would make her still sadder. And then, on the other hand, Noel, think of my dignity.

.—And, again, I may be mistaken.

.—(quickly).-But you're not.

.—(the same).—Then you confess it, do you?

.—I confess nothing. Good-bye, Noel!

.—(alone).—Ah! that's the girl for me! There is some life in her, and no sentimental humbug. (He throws open the window L.) What do I care for women that talk poetry and politics, and write books, and have a notion that they ought to have been born men? Not that! (Snaps his fingers.) Now, there's Mamzelle Mathilde (he pushes the table back L.C.) they all make so much fuss and wonder about; she's entirely beyond me. I don't understand her. I suppose it's because she's a genius. (Places an arm-chair at R. 1st E.) As a rule, I think young women—and old women, too—have no business to be geniuses; and if any makes me forgive Mamzelle de Pierreval, here, for being so vastly clever, it is that she has drawn such a life-like picture of my dear boy, although I must say she has given him a serious, solemn look he never had—I mean, a solemn look he hasn't, for they may all say what they like, I can't bring myself to believe he is dead. It's no use showing me his uniform all stained with blood and pierced with bullet-holes, or the letters and papers found in his pockets—I say still, that proves just nothing at all. (He turns over the sofa cushions.) When I think of all his miraculous escapes as a child, I cannot believe that Providence would abandon him even on the battle-field. One day—I remember he wasn't more than five years old—we were having a game of touch in this very room, and, in running away from me, what must he do but get over the balcony outside that window. (Points.) I was almost wild with terror, for I thought, of course, he was killed—poor little fellow! I rushed to the balcony, looked over with a shudder, and what did I see? There was my young scapegrace, with his little frock caught in one of the iron supports of the window, and holding on with his tiny hands to the balcony railings. "You won't catch me, Noel," he says, merrily; "it wouldn't be fair play, you know." And now they want me to believe that the pitiless invaders of our unhappy France have destroyed his young life. Never! The thing is not possible, and my mind's perfectly easy. The ladies may mourn for him, but I won't. I expect him home, I may say, every day.

If he should come this very minute it wouldn't surprise me a bit. I can almost hear his merry voice exclaiming, as he used to when he came home from a day's shooting or fishing, "Now, then, Noel, let's have a bit of lunch; I'm almost famished."

.—Now, then, Noel, let's have a of lunch; I'm almost famished! (He tosses his cap on the table L.C., and comes down C.)

.—(staggering).—Good heavens!

.—Why, what's the matter, Noel? Why do you look so strangely at