Monsieur Maurice | Page 5

one," said he, "Monsieur Maurice is not like thy father--a
rough German Dragoon risen from the ranks. He is a gentleman, and a
Frenchman; and he hath all the polish of what the Frenchman calls the
_vieille école_. And there again he puzzles me with his court-manners
and his powdered hair! He's no Bonapartist, I'll be sworn--yet if he be
o' the King's side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena,
and Louis the Eighteenth come to his own again?"
"But he is a Bonapartist, father," said I, "for he carries the Emperor's
portrait on his snuff-box."
My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive of
astonishment.
"He showed thee his snuff-box!" exclaimed he.
"Ay--and told me it was the Emperor's own gift."
"Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?"

"Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told
me I should go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he
kissed me when he said good-bye; and--and I like Monsieur Maurice
very much, father, and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him
here in prison!"
My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long grey
moustache.
"Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?" muttered he
presently, more to himself than to me. "If Legitimist, why not with his
King? If Bonapartist--then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passeth
my comprehension how we should hold him at Brühl."
"Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!" whispered I,
putting my arms coaxingly about his neck.
"But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!"
continued my father, still talking to himself. "Ah, you don't know what
politics are, my little Gretchen!--so much the better for you!"
"I do know what politics are," replied I, with great dignity. "They are
the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Satan. I heard you say so the other day."
My father burst into a Titanic roar of laughter.
"Said I so?" shouted he. "Thunder and Mars! I did not remember that I
had ever said anything half so epigrammatic!"
Now from this it will be seen that the prisoner and I were already
acquainted. We had, indeed, taken to each other from the first, and our
mutual liking ripened so rapidly that before a week was gone by we had
become the fastest friends in the world.
Our first meeting, as I have already said, took place upon the terrace.
Our second, which befell on the afternoon of the same day when my
father and I had held the conversation just recorded, happened on the
stairs. Monsieur Maurice was coming up with his hat on; I was running
down. He stopped, and held out both his hands.
"_Bonjour, petite_," he said, smiling. "Whither away so fast?"
The hoar frost was clinging to his coat, where he had brushed against
the trees in his walk, and he looked pale and tired.
"I am going home," I replied.
"Home? Did you not tell me you lived in the Château?"
"So I do, Monsieur; but at the other side, up the other staircase. This is
the side of the state-apartments."

Then, seeing in his face a look half of surprise, half of curiosity, I
added:--
"I often go there in the afternoon, when it is too cold, or too late for
out-of-doors. They are such beautiful rooms, and full of such beautiful
pictures! Would you like to see them?"
He smiled, and shook his head.
"Thanks, petite," he said, "I am too cold now, and too tired; but you
shall show them to me some other day. Meanwhile, suppose you come
up and pay me that promised visit?"
I assented joyfully, and slipping my hand into his with the ready
confidence of childhood, turned back at once and went with him to his
rooms on the second floor.
Here, finding the fire in the salon nearly out, we went down upon our
knees and blew the embers with our breath, and laughed so merrily
over our work that by the time the new logs had caught, I was as much
at home as if I had known Monsieur Maurice all my life.
"Tiens!" he said, taking me presently upon his knee and brushing the
specks of white ash from my clothes and hair, "what a little Cinderella I
have made of my guest! This must not happen again, Gretchen. Did
you not tell me yesterday that your name was Gretchen?"
"Yes, but Gretchen, you know, is not my real name," said I, "my real
name is Marguerite. Gretchen is only my pet name."
"Then you will always be Gretchen for me," said Monsieur Maurice,
with the sweetest smile in