Rupert could scarcely recognize in the lovely girl of seventeen the
little Adele with whom he had danced and walked little more than
four years before.
Adele de Pignerolles was English rather than French in her style of
beauty, for her hair was browner, and her complexion fresher and
clearer, than those of the great majority of her countrywomen. She
was vivacious, but her residence in England had taught her a
certain restraint of gesture and motion, and her admirers, and she
had many, spoke of her as l'Anglaise.
Rupert gradually moved away from those with whom he was talking,
and, moving round the group, went through an open window on to a
balcony, whence he could hear what was being said by the lively
party, without his presence being noticed.
"You are cruel, Mademoiselle d'Etamps," one of the courtiers said.
"I believe you have no heart. You love to drive us to distraction,
to make us your slaves, and then you laugh at us."
"It is all you deserve, Monsieur le Duc. One would as soon think of
taking the adoration of a butterfly seriously. One is a flower,
butterflies come round, and when they find no honey, flit away
elsewhere. You amuse yourself, so do I. Talk about hearts, I do not
believe in such things."
"That is treason," the young lady who sat next to her said,
laughing. "Now, I am just the other way; I am always in love, but
then I never can tell whom I love best, that is my trouble.
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