igma, the very personification of the
Napoleonic sphinx. She was the Imperial Secret flung a thousand leagues,
there to work itself out alone in a new land of empire. Two months ago
Louis Napoleon had recalled her from the Mexican court to her old
circle, to the Tuileries, to St. Cloud, to Compiegne, and almost at once
he had sent her back again. This time she came with the sphinx's
purpose.

Getting himself into the small boat, Ney stole a glance at the gray eyes
opposite him--for the moment they were gray, as well as treacherously
innocent and pensive--and he reflected woefully that she had quite too
much spirit altogether for an Egyptian dame of stone. She was making it
very hard for him. What caprice might not possess her while on shore,
and the ship to sail within a few hours? It was not a predicament for
sabre play. And he made the mistake of trying to wield his wits a
little.

"I should take it as an honor, mademoiselle," he faltered, "I should,
truly, if you'd only believe that I would impose my escort for the
pleasure it gives me, as well as--as well as----"

But she did not seem to notice that he stumbled. Her eyes were intent on
the green water, which the oars transmuted into eddying crystals. He
would go on, she knew, and lay more exposed the place where she meant to
strike. She had coquetted with him, old play fellow that he was, for
just a little during the voyage, as with others too, for that matter.
But she had tired of it, as she had also of the chagrin of wives and
sweethearts on board, or as she had of Hugo's "Napoleon le Petit," which
she read purely out of contrariness to the censorship laid on the exiled
poet. Michel Ney, however, and this she noted carefully, now kept close
within his soldier's shell. He had that unofficial duty to think on,
which was enough and over.

"----as well as," he finished desperately, "as a duty to an authority
over us both. If you would believe that, mademoiselle?"

Then she struck. A word sufficed. "Oh, Monsieur the Sergeant!" she
exclaimed. Her tone was deprecating, but she lingered wickedly on the
title. The young Frenchman looked down on his natty uniform. No other
cut or cloth in the whole imperial army of France was more dashing than
the sky-blue of a Chasseur d'Afrique, but none of that filled Michel's
eyes. For him there were only the worsted stripes. He colored and
winced.

"Forgive me," she said meekly, "I should have said, 'Monsieur the
Duke.'"

The