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Oulda'i world famous novel, "Under
Two Flags," dramatized by Paul M.
Potter, has made a great hit on the
stage. The dramatist has dealt mainly
with that part of the book in which
Cigarette is so conspicuous a figure
and in which the Hon. Bertie Cecil,
having fled from England under a
cloud, is known only as "Louis Victor"
and "Bel-a-faire-peur," corporal in the
French army in Algiers. Cecil prior to
his flight is a member of the First Life
guards in London and is such a verita
ble Beau Brummel that he is called
"Beauty of the Brigades." He is an
athlete, a wonderful amateur steeple
chase jockey, a great flirt "and the re
cipient of the smiles of numerous
young matrons, the principal one being
Lady Guenevere. He is a second son,
a spendthrift, and his means are so
limited that he calls himself "a pauper
and a guardsman." His father, Lord
Royallieu, hates hira, but is Aery fond
of his younger brother, Berkeley, a
weak youth, with little sense of honor.
While keeping a tryst with Lady Guen
evere her reputation becomes imperil
ed, and Cecil gives his word of honor
that he will not tell where he was the
15th of the month. He has incurred
the enmity of a race track tout and
welchcr named Ben Davis, whose
friend, Ezra Baroni, becomes possessed
of a note signed "Bertie Cecil" and in
dorsed with the forged signature
"Rockingham," the name of Cecil's
bosom friend, Lord Rockingham, fu
ture Duke of Lyonnesse, better known
as "Seraph," colonel of the First Life
guards. When accused of the forgery
by Baroni, Cecil assures Seraph, who
implicitly believes in his honesty, that
he is innocent, but when given an op
portunity to prove that he was not in
Baroni's office on the 15th of the month
getting the forged note discounted he
refuses to do so because of his pledge
to Lady Guenevere and because a blur
red, scrawled, miserable letter, blotted
With tears, reveals to him the identity
of the real forger. He submits to ar
rest, but later, when Baroni attempts
to have him dragged handcuffed
through the streets, escapes with his
valet, Rake, to France. Trior to his ar
rest Seraph's little 8-year-old sister,
Lady Venetia, tells him she hears he
has lost all his money owing to the de
feat of his favorite horse, Forest King,
because the horse was drugged by the
welcher's paid tool in revenge and of
fers to give him all her money. Cecil
is greatly touched by the child's kind
ness, but refuses her aid, accepting in
lieu thereof a little enamel sweetmeat
box, which he says he will keep in
memory of her. The scene then
changes to Algiers, where Cecil and
Rake are humble soldiers under anoth
er flag, the flag of France.
|ID I not say he would eat
"He is a brave one!"
"Rides like an Arab."
"Smokes like a zoua\c."
"Cuts off a head with that back cir
cular sweep. Ah-h-h! Magnificent!"
"And donees like an aristocrat not
like a tipsy spahis!"
The !a?t crown to the chorus of ap
plause and insult to the circle of ap-
plaiHiors was launched with all the
piquanee of inimitable canteen slang
and camp assmance from a speaker
who uad perched astride a broken
fragment of wall, with her barrel of
wine set up on end on the stones in
front of her and her six soldiers, her
big babies, as she was given mater
ially to calling them, lounging at their
ea&e on the aiid, dusty turf below. She
was very pretty, audaciously pretty,
though her skin was burned to a
bright sunny brown and her hair was
cut as short as a boy's, and her face
had not one regular feature in it. But
thenregularity, who wanted it? Who
would have thought the most pure,
classic type a change for the better,
with those dark, dancing, challenging
eyes, with that arch, brilliant, kitten
like face and,those scarlet lips like a
bud of camellia that were never so
handsome as when a cigarette was be
tween them, or, sooth to say, not sel
dom a pipe itself?
She was pretty, she was insolent, she
was intolerably coquettish, she was
mischievous as a marmoset, she would
swear if need be like a zouave, she
could fire galloping, she could toss off
her brandy or her vermuth like a
trooper, she would on occasion clinch
her little brown hand and deal a blow
that the recipient would not covet
twice, she was a child of Paris and
had all its wickedness at her fingers,
she would sing you odd songs till you
were suffocated with laughter, and she
would dance the cancan at the Salle de
Mars with the biggest giant of a cuiras
sier there. And yet, with all that, she
was not wholly unsexed, with all that
she had the delicious fragrance of
youth and had not left a certain femi
nine grace behind her, though she wore
a vivandiere's uniform and had been
born in a barrack and meant to die in a
battle. It was the blending of the two
that made her piquant, made her a no
toriety in her own way, known at
pleasure and equally in the army of
Africa as "Cigarette" and "L'Amie du
Drapeau" (the Friend of the Flag).
"Not like a tipsy spahis:!" It was a
cruel cut to her big babies, mostly spa
his, lying there at her feet or rather at
the foot of the wall, singing their
praises, with magnanimity beyond
praise, of a certain Chasseur d'Afrique.
"Ho, Cigarette!" growled a little
zouave known as Tata Leroux. "That
is the way thou forsakest thy friends
for the first fresh face."
"Well, it is not a face like a tobacco
stopper, as thine is, Tata," responded
Cigarette, with a puff of her namesake.
The repartee of the camp is apt to be
rough. "He is Bel-a-faire-peur, as you
"A woman's face!" growled the in
jured Tata, whose own countenance
was of the color and well nigh of the
flatness of one of the red bricks of the
"Ouf!". said the Friend of the Flag,
with more expression in that single
ejaculation than could be put in a vol
ume. "He does woman's, deeds, does
he? He has woman's hands, but they
can fight, I fancy! Six Arabs to his
own sword the other day in that skir
mish! Superb! Ah, he did not stop
to cut their gold buttons off, as thou
wouldst have done, Tata! Well, he has
not learned the art of war," laughed
Cigarette. "It was a waste he should
have brought me their sashes at least.
By the way, when did he join?"
"Tentwelveyears ago, or there
"He should have learned to strip
Arabs by this time, then," said Cig
arette, turning the tap of her barrel
to replenish the wine cup, "and to
steal from them, too, living or dead.
Thou must take him in hand, Tata!"
"Sacre bleu!" grumbled Tata. "Thy
heart is all gone to the Englishman."
Cigarette laughed saucily. Sentiment
has an exquisitely ludicrous side when
one is a black eyed wine seller perched
astride on a wall and dispensing
brandy dashed wine to half a dozen
sun baked spahis.
"My heart wakes fresh every day.
An Englishman! Why dost thou think
"Because he is a giant," said Tata.
Cigarette snapped her fingers:
"I have danced with grenadiers and
cuirassiers quite as tall and twice as
"Because he bathessplash, like any
"Because he is silent."
"Because he rises in his stirrups."
"Because he likes the sea."
"Because he knows boxing."
"Because he is so quiet and blazes
like the devil underneath."
Under which mass of overwhelming
proof of nationality the Friend of the
Flag gave in.
"Yes, like enough. Besides, the other
one is English. Lour-i-loo of the Chas
seurs d'Afrique tells me that the other
one waits on him like a slave when he
cancleans his harness, litters his
horse, saves him all the hard work
when he can do it without being found
out. Where did they come from?"
"They will never tell."
Cigarette tossed her nonchalant head,
with a pout of her cherry lips and a
slang oath, light as a bird, wicked as a
"Paf! They will tell it to me."
"Chut! Thou mayest make a lion
tame, a vulture leave blood, a drum
"He does woman's deeds, does he?"
beat its own rataplan, a dead man fire
a musket, but thou wilt never make an
Englishman speak when he is bent to
Cigarette launched a choice missile
of barrack slang at an array of meta
phors which their propounder thought
stupendous in their brilliancy.
"Englishmen are but men. Put the
wine in their head, make them whirl in
a waltz, promise them a kiss, and one
turns such brains as they have inside
out. When a woman is handsome, she
is never denied. He shall tell me where
he comes from. I doubt that it is from
England. See herewhy not?" And
she checked the noes off on her lithe
brown fingers: "He doesn't eat his meat
raw he speaks very soft he waltzes so
light, so light he never grumbles in his
throat like an angry bear there is no
fog in him. How can he be English
with all that?"
"There are English and English,"
said the philosophic Tata, who piqued
himself on being serenely cosmopoli
Cigarette blew a contemptuous puff
"There was never one yet that did
not growl! If they don't use their
tusks, they sit and sulk. An English
man is always boxing or grumbling.
The two make up his life."
Which view she had derived from a
profound study of various vaudevilles,
and, having delivered it, she sprang
down from her wall, strapped on her
little barrel, nodded to her big babies,
where they lounged full length in the
shadow of the stone wall, and left
them to resume their game at boc
while she started on her way singing.
Hers was a flashing, dauntless, viva
cious life, just in its youth, loving plun
der and mischief and mirth, caring
for nothing and always ready with a
laugh, a song, a slang repartee or a
shot from the dainty pistols thrust in
her sash that a general of division had
given her, whichever best suited the
Her mother a camp follower, her fa
ther nobody knew who, a spoiled child
of the army from her birth, with a
heart as bronzed as her cheek, yet with
odd, stray, nature sown instirtets here
and there of a devil may care nobility
and of a wild grace that nothing could
kill, Cigarette was the pet of the arm
of Africa and was as lawless as most
of her patrons.
She would eat a succulent duck,
thinking it all the spicier because it
had been a soldier's loot she would
wear the gold plunder off a dead Arab's
dress and never have a pang of con
science with it she would dance all
night long, when she had a chance, like
a little Bacchante she would shoot a
man, if need be, with all the noncha
lance in the world. She had had a
thousand lovers, from handsome mar
quises of the guides to tawny, black
browed scoundrels in the zouaves, and
she had never lo\ed anything except
the roll of the drum and the sight of
her own arch, defiant face, with its
scarlet lips and its short, jetty hair,
when she saw it by chance in some
burnished cuirass that served her for a
Away she went, now singing down
the crooked windings and over the
ruined gardens of the old Moorish quar
ter of the Cashbah, the hilts of the tiny
pistols glancing in the sun and the
fierce fire of the burning sunlight pour
ing down unheeded on the brave, bright
hawk eyes that had never since they
first opened to the world drooped or
dimmed for the rays of the sun or the
gaze of a lover, for the menace of death
or the presence of war.
Of course she was a little amazon
of course she was a little guerrilla of
course she did not know what a blush
meant of course her thoughts were as
riotous as her mutinous mischief was
in its act but she was "a good sol-
dier," as she was given to say. with a
toss of her curly head, and she had
some of the virtues of soldiers. Sol
diers had been about her ever since
she first remembered having a wooden
casserole for a cradle and sucking
down red wine through a pipestem.
Soldiers had been her books, her teach
ers, her models, her guardians and,
later on, her lovers, all the days of
her life. She had no guiding star ex
cept the eagles on the standards she
had no cradle song except the rata
plan and the reveille she had no sense
of duty taught her except to face fire
boldly, never to betray a comrade and
to worship two deities, "Glory" and
Yet there were tales told in the bar
rack yards and under canvas of the
little Friend of the Flag that had a
gentler side of how softly she would
touch the wounded of how deftly she
would cure them: of how carelessly
she would dash through under a raking
fire to take a draft of water to a
dying man of how she had sat by an
old grenadier's death' couch to sing to
him, refusing to stir although it was a
fete at Chalons and she loves fetes as
only a French girl can of how she
had sent every sou of her money to
her mother, so long as that mother
lived, a brutal, drunken, vile tongued
old woman who had beaten her often
times as the sole maternal attention,
when she was but an infant. Her
own sex would have seen no good in
her, but her comrades at arms could
and did. Of a surety, she missed vir
tues that women prize but not less
of a surety had she caught some that
Singing her refrain, on she dashed
now, and, like a chamois, she leaped
down over the great masses of Turkish
ruins, cleared the channel of a dry
water course and alighted just in front
of a Chasseur d'Afrique who was sit
ting alone on a broken fragment of
white marble, relic of some Moorish
mosque. He was bronzed, but scarcely
looked so after the red, brown and
black of the zouaves and the turco,
for his skin was naturally very fair,
the features delicate, the eyes very
softfor which M. Tata had growled
contemptuously "a woman's face"a
long, silken chestnut beard swept over
his chest, and his figure, as he leaned
there in the blue and scarlet and gold
of the chasseurs' uniform, was, as Ciga
ette's critical eye told her, the figure of
a superb cavalry rider, light, supple,
long of limb, wide of chest, with every
sinew and nerve firm knit as links of
steel. She glanced at his hands, which
were very white, despite the sun of
Algiers and the labors that fall to a
private of chasseurs.
"A handsome dandy," she thought,
"and noble, whatever he is."
But the best of blood was not new
to her in the ranks of the Algerian
regiments. She had known so many
of themthose gilded butterflies, those
lordly spendthrifts who had served in
the squadrons of the French horse, to
be thrust nameless and unhonored into
a sand hole hastily dug with bayonets
in the hot hush of an African night
She woke him unceremoniously from
his reverie with a challenge to wine.
"Ah, ha, my soldier, Tata Leroux says
|you are English: By the faith, he must
be right or you would never sit mus
ing there like an owl in the sunlight!
Take a draft of my Burgundy bright
as rubies. I never sell bad wines
not I! I know better than to drink
He started and rose, and before he
took the cup bowed to her, raising his
cap with a grave, courteous obeisance,
a bow that had used to be noted in
thronerooms for its perfection of grace.
"Ah, my pretty one, is it you?" he
said wearily. "You do me much honor."
Cigarette gave a little petulant twist
to the tap of her wine barrel. She was
not used to that style of salutation.
She half liked it, half resented it. It
made her wish, with an impatient scorn
for the wish, that she knew how to
read and had not her hair cut short,
like a boy'sa weakness the little vi
vandiere had never been visited with
"You are too fine for us, my brave
one," she said pettishly. "In what
country, I should wonder, does one
learn such dainty ceremony as that?"
"Where should one learn courtesies if
not in France?" he answered wearily.
He had danced with this girl soldier
the night before, but his thoughts were
far from her in this moment.
"Ouf! You have learned to fence well
with your tongue!" cried Cigarette,
provoked to receive no more compli-
"Ah, my pretty one, is it ynuf"
ment than that. Trom generals and
staff officers, as from drummers and
trumpeters, she was accustomed to flat
tery and wooing, luscious as sugared
chocolate and ardent as flirtation with
a barrack flavor about it commonly is.
She would, as often as not, to be sure,
finish it with the butt end of her pis
tol or the butt end of some bit of sting
ing sarcasm, but still for all that she
liked it and resented its omission.
"They say you are English, but I don't
believe it. You speak too soft, and you
sound the double l's too well. Say
what you are at once."
"A soldier of France. Can you wish
For the first time her eyes flashed
and softened. Her one love was the
"True," she said simply. "But you
were not always a soldier of France?
You joined, they say, 12 years ago.
What were you before then
She here cast herself down in front of
him and, with her elbows on the sand
and her chin on her hands, watched
him with all the frank curiosity and
unmoved nonchalance imaginable as
she launched the question point blank.
"Before!" he said, slowly. "Well
"You belonged to the majority then!"
said Cigarette, with a piquance made
a thousand times more piquant by the
camp slang she spoke in. "You should
not have come into the ranks. Majori
zesspecially that majorityhave very
smooth sailing generally!"
He looked at her more closely, though
she wearied him.
"Where did you get your ironies,
Cigarette? You are so young."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Bah! One is never young and
always young in camps. Young? Ah,
when I was 4 I could swear like a
grenadier, plunder like a highwayman,
lie like a thief and drink like a fish."
Yet with all thatand it was the
truththe brow was so open under the
close rings of the curls, the skin so
clear under the sun tan, the mouth so
rich and so arch in its youth!
"Why did you come into the serv-
ice?" she went on, before he had a
chance to answer her. "Bah! I know
an aristocrat at a glance! Now many
of those aristocrats comeshoals of
thembut it is always for something,
They have gambled, or bet, or got into
hot water, or fought too many duels,
or caused a court scandal, or some
thing. All the aristocrats that come
fiom Africa are ruined. What ruined
you, Mr. Aristocrat?"
"Aristocrat? I am none. I am a
corporal of the chasseurs."
"Diable! I have known a duke a
corporal! What ruined you?"
"What ruins most men, I imagine
"Folly, sure enough!" retorted Ciga
rette with scornful acquiescence. She
had no patience with him. He danced
so deliciously, he looked so superb and
he would give her nothing but these
absent answers. "Wisdom doesn't bring
men who look as you look into the
ranks of +he volunteers for Africa.
Besides, yon are too handsome to be
He laughed a little.
"I never was one that's certain.
And you are too pretty to be a cynic."
"A what?" She did not know the
word. "Is that a good cigar you have?
Give me one. Do women smoke in your
"Oh, yesmany of them."
"Where is it, then?"
"I have no countrynow."
"But the one you had?"
"I have forgotten I ever had one."
"Had you anything you cared for in
"Wellyes." "What Was it- a woman?"
"No a horse!"
He stooped his head a little as he said
it and traced more figures slowly in the
She drew a short, quick breath. She
understood that. She would only have
laughed at him had it been a woman.
Cigarette was more veracious than
complimentary in her estimate of her
"Your cigars arc good," she said im
patiently as she sprang up, her lithe,
elastic figure in the bright vivandiere
uniform standing out in full relief
against the pearly gray of the ruined
pillars, the vivid green of the rank veg
etation and the intense light of the
noon. "Your cigars are good, but it is
more than your company is! If you
had been as dull as this last night, I
would not have danced a single turn
With you in the cancan!"
And, with a bound to which indigna
tion lent wings like a swallow's, the
Friend of the Flag, insulted and amazed
at the apathy with which her advances
to friendship had been received, dashed
off at her topmost speed, singing all
the louder out of bravado. "To have
nothing more to say to me after danc
ing with me all night!" thought Ciga
rette, with fierce wrath at such con
tumely, the first neglect the pet of the
spahis had ever experienced.
She was incensed, too, that she had
been degraded into that momentary
wish that she knew how to read and
looked less like a boy, just because a
chasseur witn white hands and silent
ways had made her a grave bow! She
was more incensed still because she
could not get at his history and felt,
despite herself, a reluctance to bribe
him for it with thee cajoleries whose
potency she had boasted to Tata Le
roux. "Let him take care!" muttered
the soldier coquette passionately in her
little white teeth, so small and so
pearly, though they had gripped a bri
dle tight before them when each hand
was filled with a pistol. "If he offend
me, there are 500 swords that will
thrust civility into him, 500 shots that
will teach him the cost of daring to
She loitered in a thousand places, for
Cigarette knew everybody. Finally she
paused before the open French window
of a snow white villa, half buried in
tamarisk and orange and pomegranate,
and, balancing herself lightly on the sill
for a second, stood looking in at the
"Ho, M. le Marquis! The zouaves
have drunk all my wine up. Fill my
keg with yours for oncethe very best
burgundy, mind. I'm half afraid your
cellar will hurt my reputation."
The chamber was very handsome,
hung and furnished in the best Paris
fashion and all glittering with amber
and ormolu and velvets. In it half a
dozen menofficers of the cavalry
were sitting over their noon breakfast
and playing at lansquenet at the same
table. He whom she addressed, M. le
Marquis of Chateauroy. laughed and
"Ah, is it thee, my pretty brunette?
Take what thou wantest out of the ice
"The best growth?" asked Cigarette,
with the dubious air of caution of a
"Come!" said the marquis, amused
with the precautions taken with his
cellar, one of the finest in Algiers.
'Come in and have some breakfast, my
pretty one. Only pay the toll."
Where he sat between the window
and the table he caught her in his
arms and drew her pretty face down.
Cigarette, with the laugh of a saucy
child, whisked her cigar out of her
nouth and blew a great cloud of smoke
in his eyes. She had no particular
fancy for him, though she had for his
wines. Shouts of mirth from the other
men completed the marquis' discom
fiture as she swayed away from him
and went over to the other side of the
table, emptying some bottles uncer
emoniously into her wine kegiced,
ruby, perfumy claret that she could
not have bought anywhere for the bar
"Thou art not generally so coy with
thy kisses, petite," cried the marquis.
Cigarette tossed her head.
"I don't like bad clarets after good!
I've just been v/ith your corporal,
Bel-a-faire-peur. You are no beauty
after him, Mr. Colonel."
Chateauroy's face darkened. He was
a colossal limbed man, whose bone
was iron and whose muscles were like
oak fibers he had a dark, keen head
like an eagle's, the brow narrow, but
very high, looking higher because the
close cu* hair was worn off the tem
ples, thin lips hidden by heavy curling
mustaches and a skin burned black
by long African service. Still he was
fairly handsome enough not to have
muttered so heavy an oath as he did
at the vivandiere's jest.
"Sacre bleu! I wish my corporal
were shot! One can never hear the last
Cigarette darted a quick glance at
him. "Oh, ho, jealous!" thought her
quick wits. "And why, I wonder?"
"You haven't a finer soldier in your
chasseurs don't wish him shot for the
good of the service," said the Viscount
de Chanrellon, who had now a com
mand of his own in the light cavalry
of Algiers. "If I had to choose whether
I be backed by Bel-a-faire-peur or
by six other men in the skirmish. I'd
choose him and risk the odds."
Chateauroy tossed off his Burgundy
with a contemptuous impatience.
"Diable! That is the nonsense one
always hears about this fellow, as if
he was a second Roland or a revivified
Bayard! I see nothing particular in
him except that he's too fine a gentle
man for the ranks."
"Fine? Ah," laughed Cigarette, "he
made me a bow this morning like a
court chamberlain, and his beard is
like carded silk, and he has such wom
an's hands! But he is a fire eater too."
"Rather," laughed Claude de Chan
rellon, as magnificent a soldier himself
as ever crossed swords. "I said he
would eat fire the first time I saw him.
I wish I had him instead of you, Cha
teauroy like lightning in a charge, and
yet the very man for a dangerous bit
of secret service that wants the soft
ness of a panther. We all let our
tongues go too much, but he says so
littlejust a word here, a word there
when one's wantedno more. And he's
the devil's own to fight!"
The marquis heard the praise of his
corporal, knitting his heavy brows. It
was evident the private was no favor
ite with him.
"The fellow rides well enough," he
said, with an affectation of careless
ness. "There, for what I see, is the
end of his marvels. I wish you had
him, Claude, with all my soul."
"Oh-he!" cried Chanrellon, wiping
the Rhenish off his tawny mustache.
"He should have been a captain by this
if I had. Morbleu! He is a splendid
sabreurkills as many men to his own
sword as I could myself when it comes
to a hand to hand fight breaks horses
in like magic rides them like the wind
has a hawk's eye over open country:
obeys like clockwork. What more can
"Obeys! Yes," said the colonel of
chasseurs, with a snarl. "He'd obey
Without a word if you ordered him to
walk up to a cannon's mouth and be
blown from it, but he gives you such a
fine gentleman glance as he listens that
one would think he commanded the
"But he's very popular with your
"The worst quality a corporal can
have. His idea of maintaining disci
pline is to treat them to cognac and
gh them tobacco."
*'Parbleu! Not a bad way, either,
with our French fire eater. Your squad
rons will go to the devil after him."
The colonel gave a grim laugh.
"I dare say nobody knows the way
Cigarette, flirting with the other of
ficers, drinking champagne by great
glassfuls, eating bonbons from one,
sipping another's soup, pulling the
limbs of a succulent ortolan to pieces
with a relish and devouring truffles
with all the zest of a bon vivant, did
not lose a word and, catching the re
flection of Chateauroy's voice, settled
with her own thoughts that Bel-a
faire-peur had not a fair field or a
smooth course with his colonel. The
weathercock heart of the little Friend
of the Flag veered round, with her
sex's common custom, to the side that
was the weakest.
"Colonel,"' she cried while she ate his
foie gras with as little ceremony and
as much enjoyment as would be ex
pected from a young plunderer accus
tomed to think a meal all the better
spiced by being stolen, "whatever else
your handsome corporal is, he is an
aristocrat. Ah, ah, I know the aristo-
cratsI do! Their touch is so gentle,
and their speech is so soft, and they
have no slang of the camp, and yet
they are such devils to fight and eat
steel and die laughing, all so quiet and
"I should like to sec him in a duel."
nonchalant. Give me the aristocrats
the real thing, you know, not the ginger
cakes, just gilt, that are ashamed of be
ing honest bread, but the old blood, like
The colonel laughed, but restlessly
the little ingrate had aimed at a sore
point in him. He was of the first
empire nobility, and he was weak
enough, though a fierce, dauntless,
iron nerved soldier, to be discontented
with the great fact that his "father
had been a hero of the army of Italy
and scarce inferior in genius to Mas
sena, because impatient of the minor
one that, before strapping on a knap
sack to have his first taste of war
under Custine, the marshal had been
but a postilion at the posting inn hx
the heart of the Nivernais.
"Ah, my brunette," he answered, with
a rough laugh, "have you taken my
popular corporal for your lover? You
Bhould give your old friends warning
first, or he may chance to get an Jigly
ispit on a saber."
The Friend of the Flag tossed off
her sixth glass of champagne. She
felt for the first time in her life a
flush of hot blood on her brown, clear
cheek, well used as she was to such
jests and such lovers as these.
"He would be more likely to spit
than be spitted if it came to a duel,"
she said coolly. "I should like to see
him in a duel there is not a prettier
sight in the world when both men
have science. As for fighting forme, I
will thank nobody to have the impu
dence to do it unless I order them out.
Coqueline got shot for me, you remem
ber he was a pretty fellow, Coque
line, and they killed him so clumsily
that they disfigured him terriblyit
jvas quite a pity. I said then I would'
aave no mor* handsome men fight