Americans," she said tentatively, as though explaining
him to herself, "you are so greedy of this New World! You won't give us
of it, no, not even a poor little answer of information. Alas,
Monseigneur the American, I apologize for being on this side the ocean
at all--in a tattered frock."

Driscoll looked, but he could see nothing wrong. She seemed as crisp and
dainty as ever. If there were any disarray, it was a fetching sort, with
a certain rakish effect.

"Oh that's all right," he assured her heartily, "_you_ can stay."

"Really, and after you've been writing us notes from Washington to--to
'get out'? We French people do not think that was polite."

"I never wrote you any notes, and," he added in a lowered tone, "the
devil take Washington, since Lee didn't!"

Jacqueline's lips pursed suddenly like a cherry. "Oh pardon me," she
exclaimed. "I did not know. And so you are a--a Confederate? But," and
the gray eyes fastened upon him. She rode, too, so that she could see
his face, just ahead of her, "but your faction, the--yes, the South--she
is already vanquis--no!--whipped? I--I heard."

He did not reply, but his expression disturbed her unaccountably. She
could almost note the whimsical daredeviltry fade from his face, as
there came instead the grimmest and strangest locking of the jaws. She
tried to imagine the French beaten and her feelings then, but it was
difficult, for her countrymen were "the bravest of the world, the
unconquered." They had borne victory over four continents, into two
hemispheres. But this American, what must he feel? He was thinking, in
truth, of many things. Of his leave taking with his regiment, with those
lusty young savages of Missourians whom perhaps he was never to see
again. He was thinking of his ride through the South to Mobile, of the
misery in stubborn heroism, of the suffering everywhere, matching that
in the dreary fever camp of the Old Brigade. He was thinking of all the
beautiful Southland torn and ravaged and of the lowering cloud of
finality. Of the Army of Northern Virginia so hard pressed; of the doom
of Surrender, a knell already sounded, perhaps. Never had Jacqueline
seen such bitterness on a human face. It was a man's bitterness. And
almost a desperado's. At least there was the making of a desperado in
the youth of a moment before. She caught herself shuddering. There was
something so like a lurking death astride the yellow horse in front of
her.

But over her also