She is invaluable, Cora." "And there is not much to look at in her either," objected a captain, who commanded Turcos.

"I saw her when our detachment went to show in Paris.

A baby face, innocent as a cherub--a soft voice--a shape that looks as slight and as breakable as the stem of my glass--there is the end!" The Colonel of Tirailleurs laughed scornfully, but gently; he had been a great lion of the fashionable world before he came out to his Indigenes.
"The end of Cora! The end of her is--My good Alcide--that 'baby face' has ruined more of us than would make up a battalion.

She is so quiet, so tender; smiles like an angel, glides like a fawn; is a little sad too, the innocent dove; looks at you with eyes as clear as water, and paf! before you know where you are, she has pillaged with both hands, and you wake one fine morning bankrupt!" "Why do you let her do it ?" growled the vieille moustache, who had served under Junot, when a little lad, and had scant knowledge of the ways and wiles of the sirens of the Rue Breda.
"Ah, bah!" said the Colonel, with a shrug of his shoulders; "it is the thing to be ruined by Cora." Claude de Chanrellon sighed, stretching his handsome limbs, with the sigh of recollection; for Paris had been a Paradise Lost to him for many seasons, and he had had of late years but one solitary glimpse of it.
"It was Coeur d'Acier who was the rage in my time.

She ate me up--that woman--in three months.