“Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m.”
“Hallo! hallo! What’s that?”
“Sergeant;” here there was a military salute from a soldier. “Despatch.”
With a fierce twirl of his moustaches, “sergeant” opened the paper. “Hum! we march to-morrow.”
“Oh, dear!” cried several young girls together. And there was a general impression that a shifting garrison was a national wrong.
“Con-n-nfound it,” said the sergeant; “and my marriage.”
“Yes, yes! to-morrow, my friend,” again thought Nemorino.
“Oh! I shall not forget you, sergeant!”
“Forget! Peste! Hu-m-u-m, Adina—why can’t we be married to-day?”
“He—seems—moved—now; in—fact—he—seems—quite—frightened;” thought the little coquette.