It was evident they were suffering very
deep grief. Their faces were pale and their eyes bloodshot. "Poor
things!" Amelia said. Then her tone altered suddenly.
"Why, good gracious," she cried, "if it isn't Cesarine!"
So it was--with White Heather!
Charles got down and drew near them. "I beg your pardon," he said,
raising his hat, and addressing Madame Picardet: "I believe I have
had the pleasure of meeting you. And since I have doubtless paid in
the end for your victoria, _may_ I venture to inquire for whom you
are in mourning?"
White Heather drew back, sobbing; but Cesarine turned to him, fiery
red, with the mien of a lady. "For _him_!" she answered; "for Paul!
for our king, whom _you_ have imprisoned! As long as _he_ remains
there, we have both of us decided to wear mourning for ever!"
Charles raised his hat again, and drew back without one word.
He waved his hand to Amelia and walked home with me to Cannes.
He seemed deeply dejected.
"A penny for your thoughts!" I exclaimed, at last, in a jocular
tone, trying feebly to rouse him.
He turned to me, and sighed. "I was wondering," he answered, "if
_I_ had gone to prison, would Amelia and Isabel have done as much
for me?"
For myself, I did _not_ wonder. I knew pretty well. For Charles, you
will admit, though the bigger rogue of the two, is scarcely the kind
of rogue to inspire a woman with profound affection.
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