"Object to enter a foreign service!" she said, in reply to my refusal.
"It is you, Philip, who are in a foreign service. The Irish nation is in
exile, and in the territories of its French allies. Irish traitors are
not here; they march alone under the accursed flag of the Saxon, whom
the great Napoleon would have swept from the face of the earth, but for
the fatal valor of Irish mercenaries! Accept this offer, and my heart,
my hand, my all are yours. Refuse it, Philip, and we part."
"To wed the abominable Cambaceres!" I cried, stung with rage. "To wear
a duchess's coronet, Blanche! Ha, ha! Mushrooms, instead of
strawberry-leaves, should decorate the brows of the upstart French
nobility. I shall withdraw my parole. I demand to be sent to prison--to
be exchanged--to die--anything rather than be a traitor, and the tool of
a traitress!" Taking up my hat, I left the room in a fury; and flinging
open the door tumbled over Cambaceres, who was listening at the
key-hole, and must have overheard every word of our conversation.
We tumbled over each other, as Blanche was shrieking with laughter at
our mutual discomfiture. Her scorn only made me more mad; and, having
spurs on, I began digging them into Cambaceres' fat sides as we rolled
on the carpet, until the Marshal howled with rage and anger.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67