r a name that means seven million votes. _I_
should rather be a 'sergeant' and congratulate none but myself on it,
Monsieur the--Duke."

Again, with the wisdom of a slow intelligence, the Chasseur held back
from her subtleties. If only he might betray her into frankness--a
compliment she paid to few men and to a woman never--then, just
possibly, he might make her tractable as to their prompt return to the
ship.

"Still, it _is_ a name to rally to," he persisted, acknowledging in
spite of himself the magic that had swayed the Old Guard.

For once she left the poor shark in peace.

"A name, a name?" she repeated.

"Isn't 'France' enough of a name for your rallying, monsieur?"

But the honest mood could not last. In the same breath she hastened on,
"Yes, yes, France, the beloved of us proud grandchildren of original
dukes. Of myself, sir, with a chateau in the Bourbonnais, whose floors
are as well watered as the vineyards outside. And your France too,
Michel, giving you only your clean linen to disguise the sergeant and
remind us of the marshal of the First Empire. Of course," she added
kindly, "there is the bravery. I had forgotten that, O grandson of the
'brave des braves.' But then?--Bonte divine, there's no rank in courage,
mon ami! It's not the epaulette of a French uniform--it's the merest
lining."

"And that," the youth cried doggedly, "is still enough to----"

"To do things for France, eh petit piou-piou?"

"Helas! our France can't expect much from me. But you, mademoiselle, you
will do things for her!" It was a spontaneous tribute, just that,
without thought of prying into the secret of her mission, "While I," he
ended dismally, "can only fight."

"But you forget," she answered gravely, "that after all a woman can only
give."

That cynicism of life which had become a part of the young girl was yet
gaiety itself. Youth and health and beauty would not have even cynicism
otherwise. But now, as she spoke, the irony was bitter, and worn, as of
age. And behind it was a woman's reluctance before some abhorred
sacrifice, a sacrifice which would entail the woman's power to give.

Ney stared at her uncomprehendingly. Here lay a clue to her mysterious
errand in Mexico. But he was not thinking of her as the Napoleonic
enigma personified. It was of herself he thought, an enigma apart. She
was a flower of France. Yet many, many flowers blossom there. She might
be a grande dame, of nobility of womanhood as well as