mediately made. Madame de Gondelaurier herself, still maternally
seated in her big arm-chair, had not the heart to scold him. As for
Fleur-de-Lys's reproaches, they expired in tender cooings.

The young girl was seated near the window still embroidering her grotto
of Neptune. The captain was leaning over the back of her chair, and she
was addressing her caressing reproaches to him in a low voice.

"What has become of you these two long months, wicked man?"

"I swear to you," replied Phoebus, somewhat embarrassed by the question,
"that you are beautiful enough to set an archbishop to dreaming."

She could not repress a smile.

"Good, good, sir. Let my beauty alone and answer my question. A fine
beauty, in sooth!"

"Well, my dear cousin, I was recalled to the garrison.

"And where is that, if you please? and why did not you come to say
farewell?"

"At Queue-en-Brie."

Phoebus was delighted with the first question, which helped him to avoid
the second.

"But that is quite close by, monsieur. Why did you not come to see me a
single time?"

Here Phoebus was rather seriously embarrassed.

"Because--the service--and then, charming cousin, I have been ill."

"Ill!" she repeated in alarm.

"Yes, wounded!"

"Wounded!"

She poor child was completely upset.

"Oh! do not be frightened at that," said Phoebus, carelessly, "it was
nothing. A quarrel, a sword cut; what is that to you?"

"What is that to me?" exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys, raising her beautiful eyes
filled with tears. "Oh! you do not say what you think when you speak
thus. What sword cut was that? I wish to know all."

"Well, my dear fair one, I had a falling out with Mahe Fedy, you know?
the lieutenant of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and we ripped open a few inches
of skin for each other. That is all."

The mendacious captain was perfectly well aware that an affair of
honor always makes a man stand well in the eyes of a woman. In fact,
Fleur-de-Lys looked him full in the face, all agitated with fear,
pleasure, and admiration. Still, she was not completely reassured.

"Provided that you are wholly cured, my Phoebus!" said she. "I do not
know your Mahe Fedy, but he is a villanous man. And whence arose this
quarrel?"

Here Phoebus, whose imagination was endowed with but mediocre power
of creation, began to find himself in a quandary as to a means of
extricating himself for his prowess.

"Oh! how do I know?--a mere nothing, a horse, a remark! Fair cousin,"